I spent some quality time yesterday trying to come up with a clever April Fool's Day gag to pull here on the ol' blog. Know what I came up with?
Ah well. Maybe next year.
I decided that in lieu of a fabulous gag, maybe I'd just ramble. WHAT? Me? Ramble? Stop it. Never happens.
I happily sent off the project that was due yesterday. On time. Miraculous. And in connection with that I ended up being inside an office for the second time in two weeks. I have not been inside an office (other than a doctor's office - and that doesn't count) since I quit my job. As the time (too) fast approaches when I have to think about getting another job (oh my GOD how much do I hate that thought) being inside offices was giving me that awful deja vue, this is your life, feeling of prescience that was NOT a good thing. I will say, however, that the two friends whose offices I was visiting have HUGE workspaces compared to what I had. I mean 2-3 times the size. Luxury. Bigger than my bedroom sort of spaces. Geez. I was experiencing slight desk envy. Except for the fact that they were in offices. That definitely mitigated the envy.
I seriously cannot return to an office job. I should qualify that: I cannot return to a secretarial job. Good CHRIST did I hate being a secretary. I'd rather clean toilets, at least there's a sense of satisfaction there. And I'm dead serious about that. (If anyone needs someone to clean for them... call me.)
The sort of work I'm doing right now (you know the kind that doesn't pay, except in kind words that are worth more than gold to me) is so much more interesting, fun and satisfying than anything I've ever done in offices that I wish I could parlay it into something that actually did pay. Of course what I'm doing is something I feel passionate about so that is a huge part of the equation. There I go with that desire for passion again.
I have a passion for creating something out of nothing. But focus seems my problem. There are simply too many things I like. It's sort of the story of my life. It's a matter of being a Jack(or Jill) of-All-Trades and master of none. I know a little bit about an awful lot of things, but what the hell do I have a genius for? Nuthin' in particular. I know people who have a genius for something - a talent that drives them, a talent that makes the things they do (whether paid or not) shimmer with a master's touch. Me? I'm more of a working dilettante. I wrote poetry when I was younger, hell, I was convinced I was going to be the next Anne Sexton! I had the suicidal urges and dark humor and I love poetry so it seemed like a natural. I even got some of that 'poetry' published - which I admit I'm really proud of because in this country poetry is given very short shrift. But truthfully my poetry is pedestrian at its very best and cringe-worthy more often than not. Of course 20 years ago I thought I was a genius. Um. Yeah. Teensie-weensie bit delusional.
I also thought I'd be the next great actress on Broadway. Wellllll. Yeah. Not so much, huh? Granted I'm a helluva lot better an actor than I am a poet, and god knows people are far more inclined to pay attention to you on a stage than in a poetry journal, but still... good, occasionally really, really good does not equal genius.
I bake really well. I can kick ass with the cookies and cakes. Becoming vegan showed me that I'm even not half bad with actual non-sugary food items too. But am I a great chef? Am I destined to be a chef de pâtisserie extraordinaire? Again, not so much.
I'm funny. Okay, maybe I'm funnier in person than here, but still, trust me: funny lady right here. But can I pull off stand-up? Repeat with me: not so much.
Perhaps if I'd been born during the Renaissance I would have found a level of success by touching a whole range of disciplines. But this is not the Renaissance, hell we're closer to the Dark Ages in many ways; which is sad considering the enormous scientific and technological advances we have today. But this is about me, not about society as a whole. Just about my role in it. Which is... what exactly?
Damned if I know.