Decking the Halls

I’ve been in this apartment for almost a year now. I’ve had a lot of firsts here: the first utilities in my name, my first renter’s insurance policy, the first new mattress I’ve ever owned alone, my first time hanging artwork on the walls without input from anyone else. And that’s on top of my first birthday, Easter, Fourth of July, Halloween and Thanksgiving in this apartment.

I thought maybe all my firsts were done, but then my mom brought a big cardboard box and a large plastic container tied with string to Thanksgiving dinner at my brother’s house. I had almost forgotten about those.

It’s the first time I’ve decorated this apartment for Christmas.

I’m not a huge advocate of Christmas. I don’t mind the holiday, but I do detest the over-commercialization of it, the emphasis on consumerism, the six solid weeks of aggressive advertisements and repetitive music.

What I love about this time of year is the feeling of magic. For me, that feeling comes from pretty lights and nostalgia.

As I opened those two boxes the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I rediscovered memory after memory. Some were from my adult work life: ornaments co-workers gave me at holiday cookie parties, one that came from a dear friend who has since passed away, a gaudy glass owl that had been tied to a package from another friend I rarely see anymore.

Some were from my childhood: three tiny stockings with Santa’s face printed on them that hung from a hutch in our living room from as far back as I can remember, two fragile glass ornaments that came from my mother’s childhood, a felt tree that I sewed from scraps with a toggle button for a trunk.

Everything had been stored so carefully last year, wrapped in tissue or holiday-themed hand towels, tucked into plastic boxes, stacked and wedged together just so. I do not remember packing the decorations like this. The end of last year is a blur for me—conflicting emotions crashed into each other in waves, bringing me now expectant joy, now crushing guilt, now paralyzing fear of the clean slate before me, now giddy joy again.

I’m grateful that I didn’t unpack these decorations and emotions alone. Even though I have learned to be comfortable with myself alone over the year, this fraught journey was rendered pleasant by the company of a friend. We hadn’t planned to put up decorations, but the boxes rather called to us as we poured wine and listened to music and talked. We put on some nontraditional Christmas music and dove in.

Unencumbered by my nostalgic baggage, my friend brought fresh eyes to each treasure we unwrapped. I told stories and explained histories. He didn’t leave me room to wallow as we strung colored lights around the balcony doors, arranged ribbons on wall art, and fashioned a door wreath from fake boughs and mismatched tidbits. At a certain point, we abandoned the whole mess of wrappings and debris to go out for Indian food. It was honestly one of the best times I’ve ever had with Christmas decorations.

And so begins my first Christmas season in this apartment. I’ll have my first New Year’s Eve, as well—I moved in on January first. Life is filled with firsts. I’ve had a lot of first dates this year, a lot of first forays into new groups, new experiences, new jobs. I am grateful for each one, even those that didn’t work out so well, because each one taught me something about myself.

For now, I’m going to enjoy my treasured trinkets and holiday nostalgia in the warm glow of colorful artificial lights. Without my glasses on, they really do look magical.  

Thanks, Ladies!

I have such abundance in my life. One thing I am especially grateful for is the multitude of awesome women around me. This weekend, I reconnected with three excellent friends from grad school, and our non-stop conversation and laughter was like a balm.

We talked about a lot of things on our road trip and during short Uber rides in Pittsburgh and at bars and walking down sidewalks and on the sofa and at the table. My favorite part was when our conversation turned to the idea of the four of us starting a business together. This was not pie-in-the-sky daydream talk, but realistic comparisons between our ideas and other start-ups, and meaningful explorations of how we could do it. It was exhilarating. I felt the way I used to in grad school: like I was surrounded by some of the smartest people ever discussing the most important topics ever.

So much of my time and energy this past year has been focused on men. Whether it’s my soon-to-be-ex-husband, one of the guys I’m dating, or one of my bosses, I’ve dealt with men a lot in the last 12 months. It was refreshing to focus on my girlfriends this weekend, to simply not think about men for a while. Granted, we did discuss men at great length. All three of these ladies are in long-term, committed relationships—two of them recently married—so there was lots of talk about in-laws and blending finances and compromising and all the aspects of relating to men in an intimate way.

Turning the conversation to our respective jobs—our strengths and weaknesses in them, our goals and aspirations about money and accomplishment—was refreshing and exciting. We all studied in the same creative writing program, so we have a similar skill set when it comes to the craft of writing. In the three and a half years since we graduated, however, we have each developed other skills that could really complement each other. One of us has acquired deep technical knowledge about SEO and content managing. One has an innate sense for business dealings and finances. One is supremely confident no matter whom she’s dealing with and can motivate people to stay on-task and on-deadline. One of us has developed excellent editing acumen and can coach others toward strong, concise writing.

Together, I think we’d be a formidable business team. Even if we never act on these conversations, they have buoyed my confidence in my own life-work path. Seeing how these women have carved out a niche where they can earn a living while still employing the creative tools we honed in grad school is heartening.

I am always aware of how lucky I am to be working in the field I studied. Writing is one of those skills that people value in theory but never want to put much money into. From these savvy younger women, I have learned that you can make a living at it—you just have to know the value of your skills then be creative about managing them. Our conversations this weekend helped me see our skill sets as more than extensions of grad school; they are possibilities for a future filled with success, whatever that might look like.

These discussions also helped reinforce the idea that success doesn’t have to be defined in any one particular way. We all need to make money, yes—and we all are certain that we are currently underpaid for the work we do. But money isn’t our only concern. Agency, independence, respect, and the freedom to shape our own futures are all just as important to us as paying bills and accumulating wealth. Listening to these women, who are all 10 to 15 years younger than me, talk about their frustrations with their current work and their aspirations for molding their futures reinvigorated my own sense of power over my own future. Their strength of conviction has fortified my own.

I am eternally grateful for the strong women in my life: my mom, my new managing editor, my sister, sisters-in-law, nieces, old friends, new friends, my best friend Jessica. They show me myriad ways to be smart and unique and happy, no matter what life throws at us.

Thank you, ladies, for living life with passion, following your own paths, and bringing so much joy and laughter into my life. This morning I feel like we can take over the world.

Cliché

It seems like the universe is pushing me in a particular direction.

I say this with full acknowledgement that I have admonished others for personifying this cold, lifeless universe. I appreciate the irony.

Still, though, the whole ‘one door closes and a window opens’ metaphor is rather apt right now. Another apt analogy is ‘leap and the net will appear.’ I hate both of these clichés so much that it pains me to acknowledge that they might actually have substance.

Not so long ago, yet in that period of languid summery heat that feels like a lifetime ago, an acquaintance made the distinction between ‘having a job’ and ‘generating income.’ I was dazzled by this acquaintance for reasons outside of his business philosophy, but our short-lived liaison has left little more than this residue on me.

I, too, want to generate income without the constraints of ‘having a job.’ Thus my decision to leap into the vast and uncertain world of freelance work. To that end, I gave notice in September that I would be leaving a contract-based job at the end of the contract, in early December. That seemed plenty of notice for my supervisor to find a replacement. I thought I was being a responsible and considerate person by giving such early notice. I even suggested to a few colleagues that they submit their application materials for consideration as my replacement.

Ever heard the saying, ‘no good deed goes unpunished’? Well, it seems apropos here, as well. It seems this point in my life is simply a magnet for adages.

My supervisor decided to take a surprising tack last week. He suggested—without any option to refuse—that I complete the rest of my contracted obligations from my home, rather than come into the workplace anymore. This, he posited, would eliminate the contentious atmosphere I had created with my disrespectful attitude and repeated insubordination.

Of course, I am leaving out lots of details about the months leading up to this ultimatum--or suggestion, if you will. That is on purpose, but it does not affect my summation of the outcome.

I think he was suffering from a poor vocabulary.

By ‘contentious atmosphere,’ I think he really meant congenial conversation among peers. By ‘disrespectful attitude,’ I think he meant disagreements on how some supervisory responsibilities should be handled. By ‘repeated insubordination,’ I think he meant stating the aforementioned disagreements where others could hear them.

You see, it’s a matter of semantics. And ego.

Regardless, I have found this punishment to actually be a lightly veiled gift. Not only do I get to avoid morning traffic in downtown twice a week, but I get a gentle nudge from the universe in the direction of my previous decision.

In fact, I see this as definitive proof that this cold, lifeless universe approves of my decision and has opened a path toward my goals.

The door slamming shut behind me has loosened the sash on a window, letting in the cool breeze of progress. I am leaping through it, and I can just about see the net materializing.

So thank you, supervisor who clearly needs an anger management seminar. You were merely an instrument of the universe, working to reinforce a decision already made. I now have sufficient skin in the game to play through my fear of failure and boldly make my vision a reality. I shall generate income and not miss the confines of a job.

And thank you, too, previously dazzling acquaintance. You were an instrument of the universe, as well, coming into my life for a brief but important moment. My time with you was not wasted.

Now that I am, myself, a cliché—as I make lemonade of lemons and dance like no one’s watching and take the path less traveled and create the life I want and so forth—I take this opportunity to espouse one more.

Life must be lived forward but can only be understood backward.

Certainly this moment in my life is one that I will look back on with many emotions and perspectives in the future. It is one of the dots, to reference Steve Jobs—and why not?—that will undoubtedly connect to other dots that will lead me forward to that net I am leaping toward.

Here’s to looking and moving forward with all the confidence of one who knows it will all work out in the end. Besides, I have never been persona non grata anywhere before. I wear the moniker with a defiant pride. Even if that makes me a cliché.

Super Power

When I conduct interviews, one of my favorite questions to ask is, “If you were a superhero, what would your super power be?” Most people want to fly or be invisible or time travel. I would choose the ability to speak any language fluently upon hearing just a bit of it. If that plug-in gadget from The Matrix was a real thing, I would upload so many languages that I’m sure I’d crash my system or have to start forgetting childhood memories or something.  

Last week I attended a meet-up at my local coffee shop for Francophiles. It’s called “Café Français.” We were about seven people covering a wide age range, all attempting to carry on small talk about ourselves, the weather, politics in our somewhat rusty French.

It’s been probably three years since I seriously tried to have a conversation in French. I still think in French sometimes; I count reps when I work out in les chiffres français. This weekend while I was running at the park, I found myself working through some vocabulary in French, matching up synonyms and antonyms with their French counterparts. Yes, that’s how my mind often works during a run.

There’s science behind the benefits of second-language learning. In fact, anything that helps the brain form new pathways is beneficial for cognitive health. But the pleasures of speaking a second language go well beyond that interior scaffolding.

Speaking a second language feels like having a super power.

Gathered around that table in the corner of Angel Falls, we were an elite group of specialists sharing a coded skill that others around us couldn’t crack. At least, that’s what it felt like.

One of my colleagues from undergraduate studies also attended the meet-up. That was fun. He’s from Morocco, so I’m sure he’s got some great stories. We never knew each other very well, but I’m hoping to change that. Seeing his name on the list of attendees is partially what convinced me to get out of the house on a Tuesday evening. It also helps that Angel Falls is walking distance from my apartment—and that they offer one of the best black teas I’ve ever tasted.

As I go about building this new life of mine, I’m trying a lot of new things and meeting a lot of new people. But I’m also revisiting parts of my past I had tucked away in mothballs. French is one of those treasured aspects of my college career that I thought would remain in storage indefinitely. I am delighted to find that I can still hold up an extemporaneous conversation in French—albeit with hesitation and some help from a generous interlocutor. And I am delighted to find others willing to give up a weekday evening for the same purpose. Quelle joie.

Perhaps I’ll go to France again one day. Peut-être. Pourquoi pas? Tout est possible.