Until an hour ago I was having a half-azz kinda sh*tty day. I did all the obligatory self-talky talk encouragement stuff. I even shared the circumstances of my funk with a friend because I knew he would help me look on the bright side. Don’t you just love those friends? Get this. I even hugged a stranger. What are you ‘awwwing’ for? Hugging strangers was banned after the resurfacing of the H1N1 virus. That’s not cute. I sound desperate for a non-narcotic based pick-me-up. I finally zoned in on the source… wait, impetus (trying to get that new vocabulary in by any means necessary) of my frustration. I have been sitting at the desk of a nine-to-five for almost two years now. Two years. Two words. Frickin ridiculous.
For those of you who don’t know me, two years is usually the life span of a nine-to-five in my world. Artists are antsy. Moody. Sentimental. Impulsive. Crazed. Deranged. Borderline psychotic. How do you think we keep the world in perspective? Those of us who are fortunate enough to keep psychosis at bay through various means *non-420-hater here* maneuver through life with one thought and one thought only: THE BIG BREAK. It is the opportunity that thrusts you into the spotlight after working your gluteals off for years, months, days, hours, minutes, and seconds. Heck, microseconds. When you’re an artist, you can’t take your eyes off the prize or you will resent your surroundings. SN: Rote and mundane were never my buddies. I’m pictured in the dictionary next to the words “Barrel-of-Fun!” No matter how lovely your boss may be, if you’re an artist who happens to work *translation: you are currently stuck in* a nine-to-five, 5 o’clock is the burgeoning of a full moon and you’re a werewolf. Yes, it is that deep. Don’t criticize my analogy. It’s my first effin blog.
My point is that I was doing it. I was successfully turning the lower half of my face upward. Then, it happened. I went to the snack cabinet to look for chocolate, a necessary part of the inversion-of-a-frown process. I pulled out a purple packet of M&Ms – the only colored packet of M&Ms available. (Did I mention the snacks are free for employees and there is no room for complaints? Right.) I proceeded to rip open the corner of the snack pack, shake a few into my hand, gobble, crunch, and chew repeatedly. My initial reaction. “What the *&$%+?” Pause. Resist the urge to spit. Then, “Houston, we have a problem. These M&Ms taste like charbroiled chocolates!” Realization. “Who would do such a thing?” You’re fired! Where the heck is Donald Trump when you need him? Probably on one of his several yachts and definitely not eating any of these. Don’t get me wrong. I like dark chocolate. The deep, rich, goodness of brands like Godiva and Dove bring pleasant thoughts to mind. But an M&M is an M&M. It is milk chocolatey goodness with the option of a nut, or not. No frills. No surprises. Just milk chocolatey goodness with the option of a nut, or not. Period. I like the predictability of something that is good. It’s like an old lover; you already know what you’re getting… if it hasn’t ruined its shelf life or been weathered by time and impotence. Now, instead of celebrating my prozac-like liberation, I sit with a one-third eaten pack of purple M&M’s on my desk blogging to the universe about my preferential snack tastes and subsequent disdain for having forayed into President Obama’s land of “change.” I’d much rather be stuffing my face with a yellow pack or a brown pack of candy-coated chocolatey goodness and smiling. That would be the successful completion of my mission. That would be perfection. I guess it could be worse. I could have paid for a snack and been disappointed. At least this disappointment came free. “See?” my friend would say. “There is always a bright side!” *wink*
Persnickety Self-Adjustment: Shut your trap and be grateful for a job that provides rent, lights, gas, and snacks, however imperfect they may be, until your big break comes.