Reunions (A.K.A. Waterboarding)

Besides "scrapbooking", there is only one other word in the English language that can evoke from me a feeling akin to a mild stroke; reunion.

Let me say, this is a response that has evolved over the years. While I wasn't Patty Simcox-excited about my 5-year high school reunion, I also wasn't without some curiosity about who would show up, what people would look like, and what my classmates would be doing with their lives. It was a low-stress event--a casual picnic with no speeches, plenty of booze and best of all, no dancing.

I attended my 5-year college reunion as well and while I'll never make a special effort to go back to another, it wasn't TOO terrible. Sure, I spent the majority of conversations answering nosy questions about my failed marriage (already a bit of a freak because I had been married to begin with), and there was the Twilight Zone-worthy familiarity about hanging out at Kenyon watching everyone slip naturally and effortlessly back into their 19 year-old selves (complete with meaningless liaisons and stomach pyrotechnics), but it was fun, right?....

But, a whole new terror is on the horizon. An event I had never planned to attend, much less plan. An event so cliched and generally acknowledged to share a place on the Pain Scale with root canals, that I don't even know if it's worth writing about. In a month, I will attend my 10-year high school reunion. (A note of attained wisdom--when volunteering for class offices as a high school senior, consider how that college resume-building distinction may saddle you for the rest of your life.)

Unfortunately, logical or not, I have never looked forward to an event less. Not because it won't be nice to see people and hear what they're up to and see pictures of their husbands/wives/kids/pets/cars, but because I don't want to see myself through their eyes. It becomes more apparent as time goes on that there were very few people who really knew who I was back then, and who could blame them? I constructed such an elaborate version of myself for others, that I was a persona, not a person. I didn't have a group, I floated between several. I had a "popular", nice boyfriend, which kept me from total dorkdom and allowed me to attend "important" events like proms and sporting events. The most comfortable I felt was in my "smart" classes, but I had to be careful not to seem too smart, lest I alienate people.

I remember being in self defense class one morning, and we were supposed to envision our futures. Then we were supposed to take a few minutes to look around the room at the other girls and envision their futures. One really nice girl raised her hand and said, "Anna's going to be the first woman president." In a few weeks, I'm going to see this person and say, "Actually, I'm a political consultant/massage therapist...yes, I was married...he was an alcoholic....I live in Hugo...it's near White Bear...my manfriend owns a place up there...the legion has really good popcorn." While I've never aspired to the presidency, I did think I wanted to be in the diplomatic service. That way, at least I could be out of the country. But like so many of my other endeavors, that one is half-baked. Something about the State Department's stern position on Intention has made me hesitant. And so the inner battle between what I want to do and what I should want to do, rages on.

All of this could really be solved by adhering to one of the Modern Lady of Leisure rules (to be outlined as the blook develops)--Always Accept an Offer to Travel.

Why the hell didn't I get one for September 18th?

My House of Cards

I've failed over and over and over again in my life and that is why I succeed. -Michael Jordan

Becoming a Brown Belt

The hardest part about writing this is undoing two decades of perfecting the art of Nothing's Wrongism. A good friend of mine who worked with me on campaigns introduced me to the concept of Campaign Judo. Simply put, it's the ability to take a chaotic, half-baked mess and spin it into something that sounds successful and free of concern. This keeps the malcontents slightly less malcontented and controls the amount of scrutiny that's placed on your operation. As a campaign manager, I was a solid Blue Belt, as an individual, I'm a lethal Brown Belt.

The last thing most of us want is people looking into our lives and pointing out the flaws and shortcomings. I think I started doing it when my parents got divorced because I didn't know any other kids in my 2nd grade class who had divorced parents. It got worse after my mom remarried and we moved to a new school because I already felt like a novelty being the "new kid" and the last thing I wanted my new friends to think was that I was a freak. Thus began a new and intensified quest for perfection.

The problem, at any phase in life, with building up a facade of perfection is that eventually you begin to buy it. Suddenly things that would merely disappoint others devastate you. Elementary schools are set up to instill these kinds of complexes in children. Simple human error like forgetfulness earns you strikes against reward. Usually this reward is pizza. Now, my brother's attitude was, "Why should I work my ass off for pizza here when I can eat that anytime I want at home?" I, on the other hand, was ready to flog myself for bringing the wrong folder to science class by accident, which resulted in an unnecessarily stern lecture about responsibility and my name on the board for all to see. If I'd given my desk mate a wedgie, I would've gotten the same punishment. If this system is designed to teach important life skills, I would like to know which workplace they studied where the consequences for forgetting your notebook for a meeting was equivalent to humiliating your coworker. (Probably Google.)

The point is, I was exactly the kid those systems of approval and reward were designed for. Every gold star, every pizza party, every ribbon or certificate, brought me closer and closer to what I thought would be untouchable perfection. While Westwood Elementary School was setting me up for success, I was setting myself up for failure.

How Did I Get Here?

When I ended my last long-term employment in November of 2008, I imagined it would be a struggle to keep the job opportunities at bay long enough to recover from the campaign I'd just finished and get through the Holidays job-free. I'd been working seven days a week for a year straight and I was burned out--not eager to jump into the next thing.

This plan sustained me through a fabulous post-campaign vacation to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I stayed at a spa, treated myself to massages and facials, nice dinners and relaxation, and generally lived the glamorous lifestyle I wished I'd been born to. There is nothing like donning a super-plush terrycloth robe and padding down to a serene spa pool, overlooking the mountains while sipping herbal tea and listening to new-age instrumental music streaming through invisible speakers, to make you feel like a million fucking bucks. (And as a percentage of my income, that's about what I spent, by the way.) But, talk about seductive!

I returned and within weeks, heavily-alcoholic circumstances dictated that my husband of less than a year and I separate. This was the beginning of the "Dark Phase". I lost my shit. I cast aside my plans to hold out on a new job through the Holidays in light of my impending terror over the bills I was about to inherit. As I started searching, I repeatedly ran up against this wall where no cover letter or reference or recommendation or referral could get me a single lousy interview. Unfortunately, I'm best in person. On paper, I look like a crazy, left-leaning, over-indulged, nepotism-benefiting, hippie. I had half a Master's, and despite having gone to what Forbes has now deemed the 22nd best college in the country, I was unemployable.

Over and over again I read, "At least five years experience in related field"..."MSW or MA preferred"..."JD required"....and these were for jobs grabbing someone's coffee or sorting the mail! Jobs that friends of mine had done in high school now required Master's degrees but preferred Doctorates. I was told repeatedly that I was "overqualified" for the jobs to which I was applying but in my desperation I actually told a woman in HR for a law firm that I was , "willing to take that risk." I was also seeking any escape from my personal life which had utterly collapsed, so I applied for jobs in places like Duluth and Elk River. Worse, I actually entertained the idea of moving to these places to TAKE said shitty receptionist jobs. And so it went....all through December. I went from Tetons and tea tree oil to TLC and terror.

The Birth of a Lady of Leisure

At twenty-eight, I have an adoring and adored man, a fabulous job that challenges me and helps others, and a charming old house with a wrap around porch. I come home and make dinner before settling in to pour over a great book or some unfinished work. Or, my man and I say "screw it" and go out to some neighborhood favorite where we drink too much for a weeknight but talk about our days and our lives and the life we want. In my spare time, I recreate outdoors, sing with a jazz quartet and see my friends for wine and discussions about life and love and goals and vacations we'd like to take.

This was how it was supposed to be: but it's not.

I thought I did everything right. I worked hard through high school to go to a great college. I did well at a great college so that the world would be my oyster. Then I moved far away to try my luck in a new place with new opportunities and to take advantage of the momentum I had as I was launched into the "real world." But I failed. Well, I kind of failed.

Despite my best efforts and a work ethic I honestly didn't know I had, I graduated five years ago and since that time, I've yet to truly make it. I found my way into campaigns, which, I admit, have an inherently short shelf life and offer very little in the way of job security. But, I worked hard and worked well and still I'm not where I'd like to be.

I've got a failed marriage. All of that jet-setting, campaign-focused, single-minded tenacity and a person who theoretically should've fit right in, didn't shield me from the reality of my situation which is that I'd been too busy to notice that the person I married wasn't good for me.

I've been a renter for going on six years and still I'm not really in a position to buy a home. For whatever reason, the banks seem to frown upon people who change jobs every sixteen months and they really don't like people whose occupations are dependent on an election.

So this is where I am. Overqualified, underemployed and underwhelmed. But, the brilliant thing about having months of time without a job to get in the way of life, is that I discovered a new way of living and one I think has merit and application beyond just those women who got the life I imagined for myself someday. I found myself wondering, who WERE these women I'd see out in the middle of the day, shopping, lunching, having coffee and wandering childless through galleries and into movies? Who were these ladies of leisure and how did they do it? What gave them incentive to get out of bed in the morning? Where was their purpose? Could I really be one of them?

This blog is going to be all about the last nine months of my life and the glamorous, insane, fun and heartbreaking things I did as an unemployed woman of some meager means....this will be about my birth as a Modern Lady of Leisure.

Why This Matters

I want to begin by clarifying that I'm not writing this because I think I'm unique--quite the opposite. I'm writing this because I think I am remarkably unremarkable. There are thousands of Americans like me. Individuals who were raised to think we were special, smart, talented, and destined for greatness. Like thousands, I believed that this provided some sort of assurance. I believed this was some kind of guarantee that if I continued down a path of achievement and distinction, that I couldn't possibly fail. Not at anything. I really wish there would've been a chapter somewhere, in all of that narrative of success that I'd grown up on like Cheerios, on the danger of delusion.

I have dozens of these T-shirts we were given in high school as rewards for good attendance and grades. They were given out every trimester and I'd like to think I was too cool to be motivated by a crappy T-shirt, but I wasn't. Just like the T-shirts demanded, I reached for excellence. Not just for the obvious rich reward that only cheap clothing can deliver, but because I found my identity in being "good". I was a good student, a good girlfriend, a good joiner and a good kid. This goodness branded me and what started as my own insanely high expectations became, I believed, others' insanely high expectations of me as well.

Let me just say here, there is no drug like approval. Once you get it, you don't want to lose it. You find that you need it all the time and when it's withdrawn, you'll do anything to get it back. You know you have a real problem when you go looking for it in areas that you never needed it before and when you find it, it just never seems like enough. But, unlike traditional addictions, admitting it's a problem doesn't elicit concern from those around you. Disgust, maybe. Skepticism, absolutely. After all, how could being good at everything be a burden? How could someone so charmed be worthy of sympathy?

A Minor Setback

So the book-by-blog I began almost a year ago has disappeared. I'm sure it's out in the blogosphere somewhere, but I can't find it and, honestly, this is the consequence of living my life. It had been a LONG time since I'd contributed anything to the book/blog (hereafter referred to as the blook). Who knows what kind of drivel I was spewing months ago! Better to start anew and with a new lease on this project and by lease, I mean determination to see it be successful.

From now on, I'm going to make an attempt at a religious devotion to posting that I've never mastered for anything except an a cappella group I sang with in college. Feel free to snortle here.