Archive for August, 2010
Starting Over
Some big news. I’m starting over.
Just when I thought I’d be winding down my (not so illustrious) career in advertising, I find myself taking a “real job” in my late forties. Hard to believe I was actually crazy enough to imagine middle-age would be a time to be cashing in and kicking back.
Right smack in the middle of my 27th (failed) get-rich quick scheme, life went and surprised us all with things like economic collapses, the ruination of property values, and double digit unemployment rates. All of which led me to wake up in a sweaty panic one memorable morning transfixed by the realization that (a) I was too broke to retire and (b) too old to marry rich.
It was a terrible predicament. I spent the rest of the week rewriting my resume (which I hadn’t looked at in five years) and composing professional-sounding “cover letters” (even though I had no idea what “professional” sounded like anymore).
In what could only be described as a miracle (given the economy, for sure, and my “advanced” age most definitely), I eventually landed a senior position in an ad agency. In San Francisco, arguably among the best cities in the country. They even offered to pay my relocation. It was like falling into a crystal clear oasis after wandering aimlessly through a desert.
Within a month, I went:
- From heat (Arizona summer) to fog (San Francisco summer).
- From wearing as little as possible to wearing “layers” (the key to dressing for San Fran weather, I was told by many).
- From a daily circuit that went pool—bed—fridge, to walking everywhere by foot (since I can’t figure out how the public transport works), knapsack firmly strapped to back just in case I want to do some shopping along the way (since I was warned not to bring my car).
- From always whining about being bored and/or my loss of muscle tone, to talking to any stranger who entered my path, usually starting the conversation with: “Hey there, I’m new here. What’s good to eat around here?”
- From having my own bedroom and private bathroom, to sharing a flat with a twenty-something private school teacher in Victorian mansion having eight rooms, one tiny bathroom, roughly 3,000 antique books, an eccentric collection of Asian antiques, and 400 pair of men’s shoes (smelling of course like men’s feet).
I quickly discovered my coping skills had dulled considerably while wandering in the desert, and regularly found myself on the edge of a teary breakdown. Too much change, even if it was positive, was freaking me out.
Upon admitting my fragile state to others, I heard the following bits of sympathy and support:
“Shut up, you got a job!”
“Stop whining, you’re in San Fran!”
“Get over yourself. It’s a new beginning.”
I’m sure I’ll come round in time.
Once I stop crying.
Boo Hoo.
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