You are not your job.

I've come to terms with some things recently.

Believe it or not, I am fully into being an adult. As odd a confession this may seem, it hasn't hit me until I remembered I am married, have a car payment, and work 40 hours a week. My parents are aging, I am getting tired easier, and I discuss doing taxes with one of my best friends.

I know I am not conventionally thought of as old, and how that term, when applied to myself, offends people that are older than me. It's true that I feel and actually am older than I've ever been, of course, so that means there is a motivation more than ever to do what the heck I want to do before it isn't feasible.

On and off, I've been working on a documentary about my favorite childhood shopping mall. Unfortunately, it's seen better days and is scheduled for demolition within the next few years. It seemed like everything I've done--research, attempting to interview, the footage that I've managed to sneak--has been for nothing. I keep hitting brick walls every time I turn around. This leads me to take a break, reevaluate my angle, and see if I can get through in another way.

I enjoyed researching. Though painful at times, it reminded me of fun excursions with my family on random Saturdays or secretly shopping for Mom's Christmas present, stopping to get a root beer before heading home. Hunting for pictures, old television ads--this process is challenging. But I love it.

At work Monday, during our communal breakfast, I was sitting with some of my fellow faculty just hanging out, eating eggs and bacon. It had been a whole week of not seeing anyone and it was nice to catch up. Before you know it, our table is completely full, and I exchange hellos with some of the people that sit down next to me.

I get nervous talking to people often, even if they are my coworkers.

So, as I was talking to the people I previously joined, the newcomers start discussing this mall. They were speculating the future of it, using words like I think, and I've heard. Well, I thought I could offer some more concrete clarity, with the use of I know and I've seen.

Boy, was I naive.

I offered the three of them information, the scoop on what stores are planning what, the next plan for the entire area, and so on. I expected them to be impressed. Maybe I'm a nerd, but hey, this knowledge I've been storing up has finally been a necessity in me not looking like a freak. But of course I still look like a freak to them.

The nicest person in the group cocked her head. Her eyes became small, and she had a suggestive smirk on her face.

"So, how exactly do you know all this?"

I explain that I have been interested in the mall my whole life, and I was (and am) working on a documentary about the mall. It's always been a fascination of mine. What can I say? I like to know everything I can about the things that I like.

Well, as the words kept leaving my mouth, their eyes kept getting bigger; shocked, surprised, baffled. The Nice One finally says:

"You? But you work in the library? How would you know about doing that?"

I just half-smiled as they laughed. They continued talking, and I looked back at my empty plate.

I know I'm different. I thought this place was safe for someone who is different.

This got me thinking. Does there need to be a correlation between my work (library stuff) and my true passion (filmmaking)? Obviously, I would love to write, produce, act, direct, everything full time. Unfortunately, in Dallas it's not a likely reality for me any time soon. I know I am talented enough, there's just not much work here unless you 1. don't have a 40-hour-a-week job and 2. look like a pencil with huge boobs and blonde hair.

How dare you assume that because I hold a certain position many consider "boring" that I cannot hold any interest outside of our main product? I am a human, as are you. Do I think all she does is read about learning, watch documentaries about education, or tutor kids in her spare time? Absolutely not. It would be unfair of me to cheat her out of telling me about her life, showing me her character, if I assumed she did any of those things. Just because you enjoy your job, do it well, and want to keep doing it well, doesn't make it your life. It's not everything important about you.

If there is one message I want to get across, it is this:

YOU ARE NOT YOUR JOB.

I don't care if you're an astronaut,

an actress,

the President,

or a librarian.

You are not the job title given to you. You are not a salary, an income bracket, a tax deduction, a number, a parking space, or a briefcase.

You are a person. 

I have to remind myself of this daily now. My husband told me once, long ago when we first started dating, that I need to stop saying that I want to be an actress someday. If I want to be one, I am one. I am a writer. I am an artist, I am a film maker. I have had enough of people assuming my life goals for me, assuming that they know best when they obviously don't ask me, let alone talk to me, at all. 

I am not my job.

I am so much more.

 

Popped: short

I can stop when I want to.

Isn't that the lie all addicts tell themselves at some point? Maybe it's after that first sip, where they feel as though they are floating through air and are about to reach nirvana. Or, when they've realized, later on, what a mistake they've made and they're asking themselves how they can get out.

Are you there, God? It's me, the addict.

I've told myself I can quit, that I will quit, and that I should quit. If not for my health, for my figure. If not for my figure, my pocketbook. If not for my pocketbook, for the pure sake of being that counterculture person that everyone acts like they despise, but wishes they could be.

I am not this person.

As I sit here in my car, it's all I think about. I start my day off with the nectar of the gods, and slowly enjoy it through the rest of the day. At night, it only is partaken of if I have a certain type of dinner. Yes, I drink with fast food, which is probably the worst decision of all. As if I'm not already destroying myself.

My tongue tingles with the apprehension of something cool and refreshing. It hopes that I will listen to that part of my brain that says I am not strong enough to do what is best for myself, but what is most delicious.

The weight sitting on my frame, about average, I would suspect, feels like an unwelcome guest. I don't know if its visceral or the other term used in the media to make me feel disgusting. I don't know if my blood pressure is high, if I'm at risk of diabetes, or if I repel the opposite sex.

I am more than this.

But now as I sit here, thinking about if it's worth the money or not, I decide that it is. It's worth every drop of pleasure and regret. I could become healthy and break free from this demon, or I could embrace it. Life is short.

I turn off my car. I get out, and immediately feel a sense of excitement. Perhaps because I am going to do something taboo in front of people? That's most likely the cause of the restless butterflies in my gut. I pull open the door, the cool air brushing the little strands of hair away from my face, only to pull them back again like the tide. I look around. There are families here. Most likely they are judging me, I assume, as almost all people are judged as soon as you see them. Quantifiers, if you will, but they truly are judgments.

My purse feels heavy.

My stomach feels heavy.

My feet feel heavy.

I ignore the eyes fixated on me, my chubby exterior, and am doubting myself up until the very minute I hear--

“Welcome to McDonald's, what can I get for you?”

I act like nothing is wrong. It's a casual restaurant, and people come here all the time.

Nothing new.

“Hi, I'd, uh, like a large Dr. Pepper, please.”

Large. Why did I order a large?

“Is that all for you, ma'am?” the disinterested teenager responded.

“Um, could you make it half ice please?”

I see her eyes twitching, as though they are about to roll back into her head. “You mean, like, light ice?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Will that complete your order?”

I feel as though that is a rhetorical question. My order is never complete, as there will always be Dr. Pepper to drink and fries to eat.

“Yeah.”

“Your total is one-oh-eight.”

I pull out the exact change from my pocket. She didn't need to tell me how much it was. Of course I knew that.

I plop the change into her hand, adjust my glasses, fidget with my purse. There's no way this can bounce or be fake, so please, put it in the register already.

She counts out the change.

There is beeping, of course, and chaos behind the counter. I decide that it is best for me to step away from it. Maybe they'd forget about me. After all, I ordered just a drink.

“Here ya go.”

Her plastic covered finger nails grace the Styrofoam, and I am jealous. That is my job.

I grab it, and notice the men behind me in line for the first time. They glance at me briefly, but I do not think it is to judge. I think it is just a reaction. I think.

As I walk by the condiment table, I grab a straw. Tapping it on the counter, I am used to this routine. It is as if it is second nature, and before I know it, the straw is perfectly in the cup with my mouth securely vacuumed to it.

I am an addict.

But I can stop when I want to.

New directions (this is not a Glee reference)

Sometimes change is good. Hell, who am I trying to fool--I like change. I get bored with routines, then don't stick with whatever plan it was (losing weight, washing my clothes every day, writing my blog weekly). It's pretty pathetic. My mind is curious and wanders, so when it's satiated in some knowledge, it moves to the next.

For a long time I was fine with this. It meant I was creative or something, but to be honest it makes me feel lazy and like I have severe ADD. I don't want to believe either of those things about myself, so here's the deal.

My husband suggested I put some of the things I've been writing out here for the world to see. He likes them, and is maybe tired of being the guinea pig for all the stuff I write. A lot of it lately has to do with being fat in a superficial city, one that has more money than it knows what to do with. I've been writing for lots of projects, but this one is very near and dear to my heart.

So, with that, I'm going to make a promise to myself to write whenever inspiration hits and to not give up. I'm not the greatest writer, but I love doing it. It's what makes my soul feel alive, like the ultimate puzzle. It's figuring myself, the world, and my place in it out. Too corny or mushy? Sorry, I get that way sometimes. Not my fault.

I'm going to post a short story I wrote, and am thinking of turning into a web series. Maybe a short film. I'm not sure. But, it's personal. It's terrifying to me to have you, unnamed visitor, read.

Here's to 20forward part 2.

-ch