Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

There’s something glorious about embarrassing yourself when it’s in service to humility, newness and appreciation of the unappreciated. When it makes you see things with afresh. When it surprises you into loving what is.

Working in an office environment and all that it entails–dressing professionally, cubicle-dwelling, corporate jargon, creative anemia, having to shower–isn’t usually high on my Things That Inspire Me list. Whereas nature, friends, laughter, sex, green tea, poetry and dancing all carry an element of the divine, waking up at 4:30 and commuting along the 880 in pumps feels markedly… soulless.*

It’s only week two into the grind and I already have the corporate shuffle down pat: wake, walk, BART, carpool, work out, walk, desk, desk, desk, desk, carpool, BART, walk, sleep.

Or so I imagine. In theory this works, but in practice there is a plethora of derailments to my grand system. Usually it’s me.

Like today, when I think I’m being savvy wearing my workout clothes to work because I’ll exercise and shower at the on-campus gym (remember: I live in a hovel with no hot water) and instead get pulled into a morning meeting to which I attend wearing butt-hugging Lyra and kickers. Hello, CEO material.

Or when I attempt to shave at work because I’ve packed a skirt to wear, and nick myself so badly I look like I’m attempting morse code. I have to choose between walking around with white freckles of toilet paper on my legs or bleeding from the shins like some kind of leggy stigmata.

In that way it’s been a strange transition back to Corporate America. It was an unexpected opportunity that I didn’t know I needed until I took it, so for that I am grateful (that the universe knows what I need before I do is probably the only way I’m still alive)–but it doesn’t mean the transition wasn’t abrupt and confusing.

I went from living in a warehouse in order to fund my dream of being a performance artist/arts producer at an amorphous & eccentric artist ‘colony’ to living in a warehouse making six figures and bitching to my mother about how ridiculous it is that my company only matches my 401k up to 4%.

(I’m kidding–I’m happy for any matching, my friends.)

An so it has been, these strange groping weeks, I am back to stumbling through my life, lightless, hoping I’ll stumble somewhere good.

It’s helpful to remember I’ve groped before.


*Although, maybe I take that back. Crossing the Dumbarton Bridge on a clear, traffic-less morning with a hot cup of Jasmine holding passenger while a fiery ball of sun breaks the horizon line of my rearview proves that God does, in fact, exist.

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