Day 4: Motivation

Greetings earthlings: If you are just joining the conversation, I've challenged myself to 30 days of blogging in an effort to force myself to write e'ry day. Check out Day 1, Day 2, Day 3 or just forget the whole thing and start here.
 
A client just called a moment ago, his voice full of dread.

"I haaaate to do this to you," he said.

I took a breath.

"We need to scrap the May/June cover," he said. "A bar of soap doesn't work for the environmental services piece. They discourage using bar soap in hospitals because they can be hotbeds for germs. I didn't realize. I'm soooo sorry."

I took another breath and shivered at the thought of a germ-y hotbed.

It's no big deal, I explained to him, and hung up the phone with an exaggerated sigh before skipping down the hall to my designer's office.

"Uh oh," she said, her eyes widening. "You have that look."

>>>

Lately I've been asked this question a lot:

What motivates you? 

And I think: Honestly? Honestly, it's the promise of pure, unadulterated laziness that really gets me going. For example, last night I speed-walked the dogs, knowing full well I had four hours of delicious 'me time' (plus gelato and comfy pants) ahead of me. We made it around that loop in RECORD time, I assure you.

As I always say: With gelato and sweatpants, all the things can be done. But when it comes to the big stuff - personal goals, self improvement, work, etc. - I am still figuring out that one thing that really lights a fire under my arse. That is to say, I believe myself to be a driven, productive, and (sometimes) upbeat person. How I get from gelato and sweatpants to accomplishing anything by the end of the day is beyond me.

moto - va - tion

Mulling the word over in my head just now, I suddenly thought:

Self: Hey dummy! You just hung up the phone and you got that feeling. You know, the ONE.

I played coy with myself for a minute.  

Self: You know the ONE that gives you chilly, invisible goosebumps and makes your feet kick out a little bit as you march down the hallway!!!!!

Oh, that. Sometimes I get so lost in the daily execution of tasks and emotions and transfers of information that I forget that spark you can feel, snapping you right out of auto-pilot. Grab the wheel!

I've never thought of myself as a competitive person, but I do LOVE a challenge - like that of a client ripping up a cover right before we go to press. That feeling of: time to dig in; batten down the hatches, people; hold on, we can do this; heave-ho! I love the thrill of the juggling that inevitably comes with it: bending and reaching my limbs, overextending, then back again - keeping everything up in the air and moving - correcting the course at moment's notice, bringing it all back to a steady rhythm again.

Movement, I've gotta have it. I can't stand slow talking, moving, thinking, or driving. There is a time and place for slow time (see: home/gelato/sweatpants time), but the rest of it is go time. On-your-toes time. I sort of live by the belief that if I'm swerving, or reaching out, or darting to the side, or (if you know we me well) tripping or stumbling, anything other than standing still, I'm going to figure this this thing out.

Forward movement - progress - a second attempt - a door closing, another opening - a new day - an unexpected turn you take because you don't have another option and maybe because it just feels right in the moment: For me, that's IT.

Perhaps it's the going that keeps me going.

xo,
L

Day 3: From the Job Hunt Files

I almost just started another post with "Crap, you guys." Aren't you glad I'm so articulate?

I spent three or more hours out of the office this afternoon so I've got to be quick. All I needed to share with you is:

Holy crap. I think I just met the female Wolf of Wall Street - er, temping. While in the office "helping me find work," those recruiters recruited the SH*T out of me for a sales position with their company. Lovely to see so much (if any) potential in me; scary at how intense SALES people can be. I don't know how many more "work hard, play hard," quasi-parables, and six-figure salary name drops I could take.

Yeesh.

Sure, I walked out of there with dollar signs in my eyes, but then I woke up.

I learned a lesson today. (Unless I become very, very, very desperate) I would not be a good fit for sales. I don't have the pushiness for it. I (surprisingly) don't have the ability to talk that long without breath. Also my skin is far too greasy to be on the telephone all day.

http://static.guim.co.uk

Like Leo, if I took that job, I'd just be playing a role. And that's not really what I'm looking for. So check that baby off the list.

Oh, and TOMORROW I promise to talk about something non-work related (maybe).

P.S.: Shout out to some new-ish blog readers, some of whom are undoubtedly making fun of my hair right now. I'VE GOT MY EYE ON YOU, fools.

xo,
L

Editor's note: Much love and respect to all my peoples who are kick-ass salespeople every day o' the week. Keep doing you. xoxo

Day 2: What Would I Do?

In yesterday's post I inadvertently posed a question to (all of my many thousands of) readers:

What would you do if you could do anything?

I guess in a strange (and rather formatted) way, I was talking to myself, but then something beautiful happened. A few people commented with their answers. I got a few texts about it. A friend told me she thought about it as she fell asleep last night.

Even more lovely than taking a moment to share your thoughts and dreams with a friend was hearing and being reminded that we all have dreams. And we all have things we would rather be doing at this moment in time. We would rather be sprinting down an empty beach than standing elbows-deep in soapy water doing dishes. We would rather be piloting a tiny plane up through the cloud cover than filing our taxes. We would rather be laughing than weeping. We would rather be eating cake than our low-calorie rice cake - 'nuff said.

So thank you to everyone who shared, and even those who didn't share but thought a little extra about their own dreams and hopes as a result of reading my post. For some reason that made me feel so warm and connected.

///

Short commercial break to talk about DIFFERENCES.

Differences are wonderful and they exist all around us.

For example, my dear sister commented on this post something to the effect of "If I could do anything I'd [do something incredibly humble and kind] but if I had to have a 'real job' I'd open my own gym."

!!!! WOW. The mother load of differences existing right here inside my family circle.

If I could do anything, I would ERASE exercise (especially running, especially fast), and we would all just be healthy and active in our own ways and our bodies would react perfectly. Poof! Exercise no longer exists. That's it. After that I would just bask in the non-existance of crap-I-didn't-work-out-again guilt all day long, maybe getting a tan.

Isn't it great how we are so unique and spectacular in our own unique and spectacular ways?

///

So I've got to tell you that hearing your If I could do anythings really inspired me and helped getting the wheels turning on my own dreams.

We established yesterday that I don't know much, but here's what I do know:

I would be living near the serene ocean, but not far from the city.
I would own my own publishing firm producing books and mags and other media.
I would have office dogs - all dogs are welcome.
I would work over a quaint coffee shop that makes the best lattes.
I would have lunch with David every day!!!
I would work long hours and eat Chinese food out of the little containers with chopsticks at my desk on occasion.
I would travel once a month for work/pleasure.
I would donate books and magazines to local schools and start an after school mentoring/literacy program.
I would come home every night with red palms from hours of proofreading.
I would spend too long with every manuscript. 
I would publish my friends' great work.
I would (eventually) have a few children who would hang around the office in bean bag chairs.
I would have my whole family over to my house for chaotic and amazing holidays.
I would feel full, as often as possible.

That's as far as I've gotten. I would love to hear some of your dreams in the comments - big or small. All are welcome here.

xo,
L

Oh Shoot, Oh Shoot

Crap, you guys.

I forgot all about this whole thing.

This weekend I went and acted like a normal, well-adjusted person, who (occasionally) files her taxes before the deadline, stumbles and sweats through the masses to see the beautiful cherry blossoms in downtown D.C., and induces exhaustion and blistering with a day full of yard work. I did all of that and I forgot about my challenge (that I came up with on a whim and did not really think through).

My whim and not-thought-through plan, which was hastily typed into Gmail Friday afternoon, says the topic of my first post is: Where I'm At.

Nice, self. And great grammar, by the way.

Where to start. Where to start.

OK, I'm in a weird place. To be fair, I think I'm always in a weird place when I'm here, furiously typing this out to... someone - to you, whoever you are. But I'm in an especially weird place these days because I really don't know what I want.

My mom, if she's reading this, is probably smiling to herself. Maybe I've never really been someone who knew exactly what I wanted. Picture: Me, age 5, crying at the thrift store, toy store, clothing store because everyone else has picked out a little something for themselves and I just can't decide. David also is smiling at the same scene, only I am age 25. OK, let's carry on, shall we?

For some reason (maybe my workaholic genes), work has always been clear to me. There has never been the hanging question mark over it. It was always just: work - for food, for a roof over your head, for gas money, for fun. I started working in 2003 at the local Office Max in the small town in Virginia where I grew up. As you can imagine, it was glamorous work, as most all of my work history has been.

I picked my career path (and never changed it) freshman year of college and worked that bad boy to the bone. I graduated in three and a half years with a double major in English: Technical Writing & Editing and Creative Writing: Nonfiction. I interned with a local lifestyles magazine during college, Wrightsville Beach Magazine, and later freelance wrote for it. I was featured a few times in the campus literary journal, Atlantis. When I wasn't in class, I worked in retail at the mall and later at a family-owned italian restaurant.

I started my first job, as editorial assistant at The Place That Shall Not Be Named two months after graduating and never looked back. I took on more and more responsibility and became assistant online editor. Then I left The Place for a small publishing firm outside of D.C., where I'm currently managing editor and account manager for a variety of our non-profit clients.

I don't really know why I just told you all of that, except to say back story is always helpful? Why is this sounding like a resume all of a sudden?

So, Where I'm At: Here, in this office, where the paintings are being pulled off the walls and files are being boxed up every hour, where protocols and procedures are being reviewed, where torches are being handed off to the next bearer. Where I can feel myself and the work I've done and the roles I've been in slowly dissolving into the background.

My future job history, now a question mark.

Before you get ahead of yourself, just one point: I know this is a good thing. This Place hasn't been the right place, either. I've known that for a while. When I told my mom about my business closing at the end of May, I told her this was God dumping me out of a bucket I already knew I wanted to be out of.

But the question mark is bugging me.

What would you do if you could do anything?

I may not know my long answer to this, but I know that work would be involved - at least where I am right now, I can't imagine not working. Not taking part each day in what I find to be hard and honest toiling. This creating and dividing and manipulating of words and thoughts.

My work, the work I want to be doing, has been the constant of my adult life. No matter the changes, or challenges, or disappointments, it's been there. Hitting the alarm, waking, showering - coffee - driving - email - coffee - arching my back in a desk chair, working my way down the list. Now I feel all of that fading, too.

At some point, over all these years, work stopped being work and became part of me. Security. Is that normal? Is that OK? Am I normal? Am I OK?

Of course, the likeliest path is that I will find something. But I can't fight the nagging question: What if the right thing doesn't come along, not yet? I'm not sure what I will do, which path I will take. Maybe I'll wander for a while, or force myself to lay on the floor and think too much, or travel to see each of my siblings and hold their hands.

"This might be a hard time for you, and it might not end right away" a few people have said to me, in one way or another, over the past few weeks. And I think they're right. I think those people know me, what makes me tick. What makes me...me.

So here's the deal: I know where I'm "at," sort of. I DON'T know where I'm going, really, but I DO know that I will be back here tomorrow. And I will write something to you again. (And it will probably be weird and rambly, like this piece.) And that will just have to be good enough, for now.

xo,
L

30 Days

Hello from the dark abyss.

www.attackofthecute.com

It's been almost a year to the day since my last blog post and oh, what a year it has been - so many joys, jokes, struggles, triumphs, and bags of dog food.

Today, I'm sitting in the same chair but with a different perspective. The past 12 months have been a time of reflection and personal growth for me, and it appears that trend will continue into the months ahead.

With that in mind, I've decided to challenge myself to both write and do something physical every day for 30 days - April 14 to May 14 - in hopes it will kick-start my creativity, passion, and general joie de vivre. And, in hopes that after forcing myself to do these things for a month straight, they will become permanent fixtures in my daily, weekly routine.

I hope you will follow along and support me as so many of you have over the years!

See you back here on Monday!

xo,
L

Glutton for Punishment - Sometimes

I think I've mentioned here before that I'm some sort of an addict. Or, rather, maybe a glutton? (PS: Every time I say/hear "glutton" I think of Steel Magnolias: "You know, I used to think you were crazy for marrying that man. Then for a few years I thought you were a glutton for punishment. Now I know you must be on some mission from God." Anyone else? OK then.) I have a tendency to overdo things, but don't be alarmed. I don't shoot up too much heroin (or any heroin, at that) or even drink too much (well, not often, at least), instead I have a tendency to obsess over things to unhealthy extremes.

Example 1: If there are jellybeans in my home (especially of the Starburst variety) I will go out of my way to walk by those damned beans and grab a handful at least 20 times a day until they are gone. Or until I am sick - literally sick - and even then I might just chomp four or five more.

Example 2: If Sex & the City comes on TV, even if I've already seen that episode 20,453 times (note: I have seen them all 20,453 times), I will watch it anyway, and much to David's misfortune, I will quote every line and make the same sweeping proclamations I always make (to no one in particular): "I mean HOW do you decide between Big and Aidan - HOW? They're both flawed and perfect. Gush. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm Team Big for life, but..." (Poor David).

Example 3: If there are chips of any kind in my home, see Example 1.

But it's not all bad, rot-your-brain/teeth stuff. Sometimes I get hooked on good things, too. Reading great books is a good example of this. As an editor who spends 70% of the work day squinting at a manuscript or article, I often struggle to read on week nights without feeling like my eyes are going to bleed. (Ouch.) So I strive for weekend reading after my eyes have gotten a bit of rest, and once I'm hooked on a good story, I tell my ole' eyes to man up, and just completely let go, loosing myself in the lives of the characters, the worlds created and enhanced with every turning page.

I cry a lot in books, does this happen to you? Sometimes it even happens when nothing sad or moving took place - I just "come to" and find myself clutching the edges of the book, tears streaming, lost in avenues of the story. Sometimes I cry because I love a character so much, or because I can relate to something someone is going through so strongly it takes my breath away. Then there is the "Oh shit, there are only 10 pages left," realization cry. The toddler-style stomping tantrum, "But I don't waaaaaaaa-aant it to end! WAH!" I'm just that bratty (and proud of it).

Of course the reading thing gives way to getting hooked on one specific author. My most extreme obsessions over the past few years have been Jhumpa Lahiri and Jonathan Franzen. My love for Jhumpa was sparked back in college when David sent me one of her short stories "A Temporary Matter," and things got extreme when I finally got my hands on Interpreter of Maladies, her first collection of short stories. My appetite grew more intense with every bite. Unaccustomed Earth. I was completely submerged in this collection; I never came up for air. OK, maybe once. Then, after seeing the movie, I read The Namesake, and surprised myself with how much I connected to this story of place, belonging, responsibility, tradition, family, and love. Impossibly, my best friend invited me to hear Jhumpa read several ago at an event in Washington, DC. I was so nervous that I refused to get my book signed, and David had to drag me in line and basically hold me up and tell me to breathe. (Poor David again.) I am anxiously awaiting her next piece, and I strongly encourage you to check out her stuff!

I also discovered my old friend (I wish) Jonathan Franzen while in college. (I've written about this very much loved/not-loved man and my obsession with him previously.) He was a guest at a yearly creative writing event and he read an excerpt from "My Bird Problem." I was immediately dead. I searched for it for years. I thought about it all the time, but I couldn't figure out what the essay was and how to get a copy. It wasn't until Freedom came out that I was finally able to track it down. I re-read the article, printed it out, saved it in a file, read Freedom (wept), reread my favorite essay from How to Be Alone, read The Corrections, read Freedom again (wept again), and now I'm reading Strong Motion, a novel set in Boston that makes me miss my friend Emily Brown. From here, I think I'll check out The Twenty-Seventh City then sit and pray for another book to come out - and maaaaybe read Freedom again. I honestly cannot get enough of this man. So many people don't like him and can't relate to his writing, but I feel like every line was written for me - isn't it magical how that can happen?

So I might eat too much, whine too much, and expect too much from people, but at least here, in this reading space, I know I am exempt from judgment or criticism. I am free to lose myself in these moments of throat-pinching, head-nodding, soul-stirring understanding. That feeling - knowing that you can be seen in the truest sense, that you are loved, and - despite the moments of darkness and uncertainty - that you are not alone.

Forward Motion

I don't know if I've ever mentioned it in this space, but growing up we moved a lot. My two older sisters were born in Alexandria, Va, my little sister Whitney and I were born in Beverly, Mass., and the next four siblings were born in the Berryville/Winchester, Va area. In all, I moved nine times when I was still living under my parents' roof(s).

Given the sheer size of our family and the frequent moves, the ability to "roll with it" was ingrained in each of us from an early age. We learned to share, look out for one another, make our own fun, step up for responsibility, play our part, and have good attitudes no matter the circumstances. If mom was out of town on a business trip, we stepped up to help dad brave the weekend. If plans changed at the last minute, we got creative to preserve our fun. If we got to church and someone forgot underwear, one of us was wearing an extra pair over ours "just in case." (This actually happened once.) We learned to be prepared, and sometimes not ask questions, and other times to hop up and hold on when we were needed. We learned that change - like a move, cancelled plan, divorce - is inevitable, so make the best of it.

As I've grown into a woman, my ability to act in accordance with this statement has dissolved and reappeared and then dissolved again from time to time. I wouldn't say I am always someone who has "a cooler head," or takes a step back from a stressful situation to process things, or even breathes deeply in and out before speaking. Frankly, I would say I'm hardly ever that person, because struggle, by nature, isn't easy. Facing uncertainty or the guarantee of hard times ahead causes all of us to falter once in a while. Change is scary, and as much as you might be someone who loves that nomad lifestyle, of that shiny something new just around the corner, we all have that degree or level of change, of flux, that sets us into free fall.
 
Maybe you love the idea of moving from rental to rental every year - new rooms to paint and decorate, a new route to work, new neighbors. Or maybe it's work - you don't like staying anywhere too long for fear of getting soft and out of touch. Maybe it's your hair. But the likelihood that you enjoy all of those things constantly is probably pretty small.

Because, to me, constant change can equal a lack of stability. A missing element in the equation of a life. Of course there are exceptions; there always are. There are perfectly balanced and happy nomads out there, and we love them. They inspire us to let go of routine just a bit more, they represent a quest for personal freedom within all of us.

But still we face this problem of change in an area that we're not so comfortable. As the course of life redirects - sometimes abruptly, sometimes slowly over time - we feel ourselves losing control and therein faith in ourselves. I could do THAT even though it was hard, but I CANNOT do this. There is just no way. As the rope of control slips more quickly through our fingers, we cling to every fiber even harder, just hoping to retain a bit of the "way it was," the comfort of that well-worn daily routine.

In the abrupt switch, the without-a-choice switch, it's more like waking up at the end of that dangling rope - perhaps it's even drenched in oil - and before you can muster the strength to heave upward, its already out of your hands. Its gone. A not-so-distant memory. You're falling - it's a fact. You can accept it or flail until unconsciousness. I think the pain of accepting it is part of the process - of the sometimes sadistic beauty of change. You have to believe that eventually you're going to land somewhere - pavement, water, a mountainside, jagged rocks. Something is going to break your fall - and maybe even your back - but the fall will eventually stop, and in this metaphor there is no death, so you will live to see another day. I know it sounds so basic, but I think truly embracing your situation is one of the hardest things we humans go through.

It might take you years to get back to that place, that peak where you once stood - and even if you make it back, you might wake up on the end of that rope all over again, but you have to believe the journey is worth it. That forward motion is growth - be it struggle, change, heartache, uncertainty - and if you're standing still, you're wasting time, talent, creativity, skill, faith. So what's better - to hang in stasis or fall with the chance to climb again - this time with the knowledge of a seasoned climber?


We can't control what happens to us, but we can control how we deal with those things. Facing great adversity, we can give up or we can choose to dig in our heels, cry out to the heavens, brace ourselves for the worst of it, and hang on for dear life.

Rah-Rah-Rah OR The Cheerleading Act

Do you know me a little bit? Have you had a drink with me once or sat in a class with me, worked alongside me, played sports (what?) with me, or ever laid eyes on me?
 
Then you know I'm not the cheerleading type. I don't have the stamina for it - especially when it comes to the "RAH factor" and the flexibility. Also the body type. (Let's not go there.)

The RAH factor

But, guess what? Sometimes, as they say, life happens and you're stuck holding the baton (do cheerleaders have batons? Yes, I am THAT out of touch) - or the pom-poms (there we go) - charged with cheering your heart out, at the top of your lungs, waving your arms, anything to drown out the defeaning cry of the negativity gremlins on the side lines:

YOU CAN'T DO IT

THIS WILL NEVER WORK

IT'S OVER

YOU'RE WORTHLESS

IF ONLY YOU WERE GOOD ENOUGH

BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME

They're loud and they never tire. And they're always ready at a moment's notice to knock your door down and bring you to tears.

Screw the gremlins, I say in my best high-pitched voice. It sounds almost peppy. Almost.

I don't belong here on the sidelines - even in high school, I was the girl in the top left corner of the stands, or way back in the back behind the snack bar (typical). The closest I got to the "action" was sneaking a quick hello to my marching band boyfriend who sat in the stands (again, typical). I have never been an up-close-and-in-your-face kind of girl. I wasn't born with the RAH factor. I was born with the "roll with it" middle child factor.The impossibly-tall-and-yet-shy-and-introverted factor. The walk softly and carry a big notebook sort of quiet observer. Seeking peace, not battle. Never very good at competition.

Peaceful girls play the flute

I made a habit of turning everything into a joke from an early age. My grandfather used to call me "JK" because I was constantly picking on my little sister as he drove us to and from elementary and middle school. I developed a fondness for the nickname and went with it. I learned to hide behind humor, sarcasm, cynicism to cope with things that made me feel threatened, or scared, or alone. I became the anti-RAH girl. I silently hated the RAH girls - and maybe a part of me still does. There's always been something unauthentic about it to me. The fact is, there isn't always something to be RAH about.

This is part of my personal code - in the words of Rocky "this world ain't all sunshine and rainbows" and while I love a sunny day and a sweet rainbow as much as the next gal, I also know part of life is accepting the stormy weather, too. Perhaps that gives context to my one and only tattoo - Donne-Moi La Verite - "Give Me Truth," in my beloved French. It was an uncharacteristically rash decision on my 21st birthday, and I'll admit there was a bit of liquid courage involved, but I've never regretted it. It's true. I want the truth - with all of its cracks and ugliness - hard and fast. Doesn't matter how bad it is. I only like sugar coating on frosted mini wheats (bumper sticker, anyone?).

And this is why I'm not the best at cheerleading. But - listen up - sister has her spanky shorts on, folks. Sister is warming up the old vocal chords and twirling the baton at lightening speeds. And by the time I'm finished, this team will have WON the game, the finals, STATE, and, hell, maybe we'll be the first imaginary team to make it to the gosh-darn Super Bowl. 

V-I-C-T-O-R-Y Vince Lombardi wrote our battle cry: "I firmly believe that any man's finest hour, the greatest fulfillment of all that he holds dear, is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle - victorious."

Now THAT is something I can get behind.

Because sometimes you have no other choice. Sometimes you're the only one in the stands and you're facing great loss. Victory seems impossible with seconds left on the clock. The team - your team, your everything - is looking to you for reassurance, for support, for encouragement. Sometimes, magically, life finds a way of drawing the RAH out of you. Sometimes the RAH is the only way to get through it - despite all of your own worries, and fears, and struggles, despite your trembling hands. You feel yourself beginning to lean into the pain of it all, finding that buried belief you knew was always there. With each RAH, you feel your words sparking movement, forward motion, and - before you know it - your speed is picking up. You've taken the hits and made your way back to your feet - you're moving again.


So, go team, etc. And in the immortal words of best-ever Friday Night Lights: Clear eyes - Full hearts - Can't lose.

Take 'em to church, Coach.