Boxes (A Reflection)
I
adjusted the vents and cursed quietly. I was certain now, the air conditioning
wasn't blowing as cIIadjusted the
vents and cursed quietly. I was certain now, the air conditioning wasn't
blowing as cold as it should've been. The closing weekend of an outdoor
Renaissance festival had left me needing more tears to shed to keep pace
with my fellow drama-kid performers and more auto coolant, but apparently I
didn't have much of either to spare.
The older it gets, the more money it will take to maintain it, said a voice.
A sports car, even an older one, is a luxury item for someone at your income level. You should sell it and learn to do without. Be realistic about your means.
HIM, insisted another voice.
I won't sell HIM. There's blood, sweat and tears imbued in this car; I have given him a soul. In return he has brought me to new lives, new identities, over and over. Each one has begun and ended with me alone, behind the wheel, in this seat, my thumb worrying the ear of the horse logo stamped into the airbag.
Alone. Being alone burns and soothes at the same time.
Dark, wooded southern Wisconsin rolled past outside, looking much like dark, wooded southern Missouri. Sticky, static, and still while the semi-trucks and I sped through; each carrying cargo, each paying the necessary tolls along the way.
10 years since I graduated from high school.
6 years since I graduated from college.
5 years since I bought my first home.
4 years since my last relationship ended.
3 years since I moved to Chicago.
1 year since I became a "Rennie," a.k.a., a costumed character at a Renaissance Faire.
1 year since I've written anything for this blog.
I look back at different times in my life, and the disparate phases seem separated into compartments, like cardboard boxes marked with Sharpie: "Old House," "College," "Boyfriend," "THAT Job," "Jesus, That Job Too." They're starting to seem like different lives; different incarnations of me, different parts I've had to play out of choice or necessity or both.
The Awkward Fish in a Small Pond
The College Student
The Factory Laborer
The Budding Actress
The Budding Journalist
The Devoted Girlfriend
The College Grad
The Professional Working Woman
The Homeowner
The Brokenhearted Woman
The Small Town Girl with Big City Dreams
The Waitress/Seating Hostess/Struggling Actress
The Reject
The Rennie
(The Still-Single Still-Awkward Broad Approaching 30)
Have you ever felt that it was obvious when the writers of your favorite TV show attempted to start a new subplot or character arc, or tried to steer the series in a new direction, and -- whether through bad ratings or an actor getting fired -- the idea petered out or came to a dead end?
On days when I'm not rested enough, that's what I see when I look at my life: a poorly-written TV series with a dozen different subplots, character arcs and new directions that all came to an abrupt halt so that the series hasn't made any real progress in any direction for several seasons.
I wish I could discover a common theme connecting all the boxes, some self-revelation I could draw from these different experiences, that would make them all come together into some sort of cohesive overarching plot line, which I could then follow into the future. But life isn't a TV show, even if it sometimes feels like it.
I just turned 28. I'm no more excited to be 28 than I was to be 27, though 27 has been significantly better than 26. While I didn't exactly deal with terminal illness or addiction or the death of someone close to me, I did spend a lot of time questioning 1) my usefulness in the world and 2) my apparently misguided perception of myself as a generally capable, generally desirable human being.
I didn't exactly run away and join the circus, but I did the next-closest thing: I auditioned for a Renaissance festival. Though I didn't know it at the time, it was probably the only thing I did "right" from autumn of 2013 to autumn of 2014. So I spent last summer and this summer stomping around a humid Wisconsin prairie in 3 layers of period-appropriate wench garb and faking an accent. I gained: a good bit of improv experience, a whole new appreciation for indoor plumbing, but most importantly, entry into a new social circle that ended up leading me to a new, hopefully stable job.
Recently I've been thinking about The Next Step, if it even exists. It's very tempting to just sort of "Keep Calm and Carry On" for a while, now that this season of the Ren Faire has closed and I'm not trudging through yet another job search. Be complacent and grateful for what I have, what I waited so long to have: a steady job (or 2) to get up and go to every morning/some evenings. Some semblance of a metropolitan social life. Maybe I should just sit in the back seat for a while and let whatever happens happen.
But I looked out the office window last month at a TV shoot happening on the street below, and an inner voice said "I wanna do that! I can still do that! It's not too late and I'm not too old. I'm not confined to one musty box." should've been. The closing weekend of an outdoor Renaissance festival had left me needing more tears to shed to keep pace with my fellow drama-kid performers and more auto coolant, but apparently I didn't have much of either to spare.
The older it gets, the more money it will take to maintain it, said a voice.
A sports car, even an older one, is a luxury item for someone at your income level. You should sell it and learn to do without. Be realistic about your means.
HIM, insisted another voice.
I won't sell HIM. There's blood, sweat and tears imbued in this car; I have given him a soul. In return he has brought me to new lives, new identities, over and over. Each one has begun and ended with me alone, behind the wheel, in this seat, my thumb worrying the ear of the horse logo stamped into the airbag.
Alone. Being alone burns and soothes at the same time.
Dark, wooded southern Wisconsin rolled past outside, looking much like dark, wooded southern Missouri. Sticky, static, and still while the semi-trucks and I sped through; each carrying cargo, each paying the necessary tolls along the way.
10 years since I graduated from high school.
6 years since I graduated from college.
5 years since I bought my first home.
4 years since my last relationship ended.
3 years since I moved to Chicago.
1 year since I became a "Rennie," a.k.a., a costumed character at a Renaissance Faire.
1 year since I've written anything for this blog.
I look back at different times in my life, and the disparate phases seem separated into compartments, like cardboard boxes marked with Sharpie: "Old House," "College," "Boyfriend," "THAT Job," "Jesus, That Job Too." They're starting to seem like different lives; different incarnations of me, different parts I've had to play out of choice or necessity or both.
The Awkward Fish in a Small Pond
The College Student
The Factory Laborer
The Budding Actress
The Budding Journalist
The Devoted Girlfriend
The College Grad
The Professional Working Woman
The Homeowner
The Brokenhearted Woman
The Small Town Girl with Big City Dreams
The Waitress/Seating Hostess/Struggling Actress
The Reject
The Rennie
(The Still-Single Still-Awkward Broad Approaching 30)
Have you ever felt that it was obvious when the writers of your favorite TV show attempted to start a new subplot or character arc, or tried to steer the series in a new direction, and -- whether through bad ratings or an actor getting fired -- the idea petered out or came to a dead end?
On days when I'm not rested enough, that's what I see when I look at my life: a poorly-written TV series with a dozen different subplots, character arcs and new directions that all came to an abrupt halt so that the series hasn't made any real progress in any direction for several seasons.
I wish I could discover a common theme connecting all the boxes, some self-revelation I could draw from these different experiences, that would make them all come together into some sort of cohesive overarching plot line, which I could then follow into the future. But life isn't a TV show, even if it sometimes feels like it.
I just turned 28. I'm no more excited to be 28 than I was to be 27, though 27 has been significantly better than 26. While I didn't exactly deal with terminal illness or addiction or the death of someone close to me, I did spend a lot of time questioning 1) my usefulness in the world and 2) my apparently misguided perception of myself as a generally capable, generally desirable human being.
I didn't exactly run away and join the circus, but I did the next-closest thing: I auditioned for a Renaissance festival. Though I didn't know it at the time, it was probably the only thing I did "right" from autumn of 2013 to autumn of 2014. So I spent last summer and this summer stomping around a humid Wisconsin prairie in 3 layers of period-appropriate wench garb and faking an accent. I gained: a good bit of improv experience, a whole new appreciation for indoor plumbing, but most importantly, entry into a new social circle that ended up leading me to a new, hopefully stable job.
Recently I've been thinking about The Next Step, if it even exists. It's very tempting to just sort of "Keep Calm and Carry On" for a while, now that this season of the Ren Faire has closed and I'm not trudging through yet another job search. Be complacent and grateful for what I have, what I waited so long to have: a steady job (or 2) to get up and go to every morning/some evenings. Some semblance of a metropolitan social life. Maybe I should just sit in the back seat for a while and let whatever happens happen.
But I looked out the office window last month at a TV shoot happening on the street below, and an inner voice said "I wanna do that! I can still do that! It's not too late and I'm not too old. I'm not confined to one musty box." should've been. The closing weekend of an outdoor Renaissance festival had left me needing more tears to shed to keep pace with my fellow drama-kid performers and more auto coolant, but apparently I didn't have much of either to spare.
The older it gets, the more money it will take to maintain it, said a voice.
A sports car, even an older one, is a luxury item for someone at your income level. You should sell it and learn to do without. Be realistic about your means.
HIM, insisted another voice.
I won't sell HIM. There's blood, sweat and tears imbued in this car; I have given him a soul. In return he has brought me to new lives, new identities, over and over. Each one has begun and ended with me alone, behind the wheel, in this seat, my thumb worrying the ear of horse logo stamped into the airbag.
Alone. Alone burns and soothes at the same time.
Dark, wooded southern Wisconsin rolled past outside, looking much like dark, wooded southern Missouri. Sticky, static, still while the semi-trucks and I sped through; each carrying cargo, each paying the necessary tolls along the way.
10 years since I graduated from high school.
6 years since I graduated from college.
5 years since I bought my first home.
4 years since my last relationship ended.
3 years since I moved to Chicago.
1 year since I became a "Rennie," a.k.a.,
a costumed character at a Renaissance Faire.
(1 year since I've written anything for this blog.)
I look back at different times in my life, and the disparate phases seem separated into compartments, like cardboard boxes marked with Sharpie: "Old House," "College," "Boyfriend," "THAT Job," "Jesus, That Job Too." They're starting to seem like different lives; different incarnations of me, different parts I've had to play out of choice or necessity or both.
The Awkward Fish in a Small Pond
The College Student
The Factory Laborer
The Budding Actress
The Budding Journalist
The Devoted Girlfriend
The College Grad
The Professional Working Woman
The Homeowner
The Brokenhearted, Jaded Woman
The Small Town Girl with Big City Dreams
The Waitress/Seating Hostess/Struggling Actress
The Reject
The Rennie
(The Still-Single Still-Awkward Broad Approaching 30)
Have you ever felt that it was obvious when the writers of your favorite TV show attempted to start a new subplot or character arc, or tried to steer the series in a new direction, and -- whether through bad ratings or an actor getting fired -- the idea petered out or came to a dead end? When I take a step back from my life, that's what I feel like I'm looking at: a poorly-written TV series with a dozen different subplots, character arcs and new directions that all came to an abrupt halt so that the series hasn't made any real progress in any direction for several seasons.
I wish I could discover a common theme connecting all the boxes, some self-revelation I could draw from these different experiences, that would make them all come together into some sort of cohesive overarching plot line, which I could then follow into the future. But life isn't a TV show, even if it sometimes feels like it.
I just turned 28. I'm no more excited to be 28 than I was to be 27, though 27 was significantly better than 26. While I didn't exactly deal with terminal illness or addiction or the death of someone close to me, I did spend a lot of time questioning 1) my usefulness in the world and 2) my apparently misguided perception of myself as a generally capable, generally desirable human being.
I didn't exactly run away and join the circus, but I did the next-closest thing: I auditioned for a Renaissance festival. Though I didn't know it at the time, it was probably the only thing I did "right" from autumn of 2013 to autumn of 2014. So I spent last summer and this summer stomping around a humid Wisconsin prairie in 3 layers of period-appropriate wench garb and faking an accent. I gained: a good bit of improv experience, a whole new appreciation for indoor plumbing, but most importantly, entry into a new social circle that ended up leading me to a new, hopefully stable job.
Recently I've been thinking about The Next Step, if it even exists. It's very tempting to just sort of "Keep Calm and Carry On" for a while, now that this season of the Ren Faire has closed and I'm not trudging through yet another job search. Be complacent and grateful for what I have, what I waited so long to have: a steady job (or 2) to get up and go to every morning/some evenings. Some semblance of a metropolitan social life. Maybe I should just sit in the back seat for a while and let whatever happens happen.
But I looked out the office window last month at a TV shoot happening on the street below, and an inner voice said "I wanna do that! I can still do that! It's not too late and I'm not too old. I'm not confined to one musty box."
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