Carnival stalking, part I

My favorite part of the morning is that first thirty seconds of consciousness, right before my mind loosens its grip on whatever dream it was having and begins taking inventory of reality, up to where life left off the night before. Lately, about 31 seconds into my morning, something doesn’t feel quite right and I can’t put my finger on what it is. Have I just been dumped? Did someone die? Because it feels oddly like someone who should be in my life isn’t anymore. But I run down that list in my head and realize that nothing traumatic has happened to me recently. So what is my problem?

I’ll bet my therapist, if I could still afford her, would tell me that I should go easier on myself, that unemployment isn’t supposed to be relaxing. It’s true; restlessness has settled in and I’m terribly disappointed in myself. I used to fantasize about a day I could steal away for myself. Just one day! I would call in sick, or well, or for no reason at all, and just take the time to do my own thing.

There’s a certain je ne sais crois about a Wednesday morning when you are playing hooky. The air is fresher, crisper. The sun hits the building across the street at an angle that magnifies the lines. Trees look almost like cartoons. And it’s like you’re walking in slow motion through a movie that is playing faster than it needs to go. I like being in the middle of everyone else’s rush to get places. Everyone has their private morning rituals – flossing behind the wheel, reading on the train, gazing off behind the person making them coffee. No one says a word to anyone else, but they all seem to be saying I’m late.

In my 9-5 days, I used to long for the luxury of boredom. I wanted the challenge of filling hour after hour with time-killing activities. Game shows. Errands. Rating passers-by on how comfortable they look in their work clothes. Cringing at the women in skirts, pantyhose and sneakers, carrying a change of shoes in their purses.

I would sometimes find myself in my cube, reading the same sentence over and over again, realizing that I hadn’t so much as blinked in over a minute. My shoulders were up under my ears, I had no idea how long my mouth had been hanging open and I wondered if anyone would notice if I took another coffee break. During those times I would think, if I could only take a month off…

Oh, I had big plans. I would work on my photography. Cook new recipes. Volunteer at a soup kitchen. Learn how to play the guitar. Take French lessons. Visit old friends. Finally begin my Great American Novel. All of this if I could just find a week or two to myself!

And here I am, five months into an extended period without work, and what have I got to show for it? Once upon a time, my to do list was filled with items such as, 1. Create Marketing Plan. 2. Write press release. 3. Contact CEO re: trade show in Dallas. These days my to do list reads: 1. Make bed. 2. Do laundry. 3. Watch Ellen Degeneres show. 4. Begin Great American Novel.

There’s nothing like getting exactly what you wished for and realizing that you are doing a lousy job of taking advantage of it. The thought that you are squandering your dreams makes you anxious, and anxiety gets in the way of fulfilling your dreams. Then one day you are invited to lunch with your former coworkers and they ask you what you have been up to and you can’t think of one interesting thing that you’ve done lately, so you tell them a plot line you remember from the TV show you watched last night and pretend it’s something that happened to you the other day.

So I guess anyone would understand how I have become so restless that I’m paralyzed and can hardly bring myself to shower, let alone get out of bed early on a Wednesday morning to enjoy the morning crowd as they bustle their way to work. But last Wednesday was different. On my big trip to the grocery store I noticed a sign advertising a carnival that was in my town, due to set up right down the street from my apartment.

To be continued…