Lady in the Mirror

As I approach the one-year anniversary of my layoff, I've realized that I’m light years ahead of the old me.

A year ago, I was an angry workaholic. I threw myself into work to avoid other areas of my life that needed much attention. I let the demanding, dysfunctional world of advertising agencies rule my life. I was overweight, exhausted and miserable.

As of today, I can honestly say that I’m in a much better place. Since my re-birthday (10/23/09), I’ve (started) to learn to surf, do a mean vinyasa, written a 46-page non-fiction book proposal and go on dates at least twice a week. I’m working on a standup act, blogging and selling designer shoes, clothes and handbags on eBay that I never should’ve bought in the first place. I’ve been a movie extra, gone to countless TV show tapings and have met some really interesting characters. I had a hat project (I “borrowed” cute gentleman’s hats for photo shoots), learned to love quinoa and was enamored by Mad Men and MI-5 on DVD. I even gave my number to Scott Speedman.

Most of all, I’ve learned that I need to do a better job expressing myself, that spinning and running provide a means to process my anger and frustration, what my real strengths and weaknesses are and what I really want in the man that will be my husband. I've lost 15-20 lbs. and no longer have chronic dark circles under my eyes.

Make no mistake…losing one’s job can be a blow to self-esteem and I’m no different. I’ve had to learn to like myself for achievements and activities that are outside of work. In fact, I’ve learned that I need to like myself even if I achieve nothing. Since I’m an overachiever, it's been hard but I finally feel a little bit of peace. I'm not running to out do myself.

So what's up for the next year? I'm living the question. But I'm hopeful, much more so than when I was working. Every once and a while, I see the ghost of my old self in the mirror and I barely recognize her. She fades, but is not forgotten. I'll never let myself slip that low again.

Doggone it!

Ohhh, best laid plans. My big entrepreneurial idea was to launch a dogwalking business. I figured that I'd make money walking and bonding with dogs while having a flexible schedule to write the book. Sounds good, right? 

Well, it turns out dogwalking is super competitive. And dealing with pet parents is frustrating. Not because they are overly informative…it’s actually the opposite. I also had a kneepocolyse, which precluded me from, well, walking.

All of these issues were minor obstacles. Actually, the knee issue was a huge obstacle. Regardless, there was one, unforeseen issue that I never remotely anticipated. 

Allergies.

While my mom and brother are severely allergic to dogs, I was always ok. I thought I had my dad’s nose. Nope.

Being a Benadryled zombie is not good for business. And, really, who has a business servicing only hypoallergenic dogs? I guess the whole business is torpedoed...or gone to the dogs...evaporated faster than steam on a dog day afternoon...doggone it!

Anti-Aging

When you find yourself dancing around in a motorcycle helmut with painted flames at 2am, you may need to reevaluate your situation. I know this first hand.

Last Thursday, I went out. Typical night. A drink, a few chats with gentlemen, some food, a little flirting and a shoulder shimmy or two.

Then Pabst Blue Ribbon happened.

I’ve avoided this particular beverage like it were rat poison. But when you’re FUNemployed and others are kind enough to buy you drinks, you roll with it.

I was displaying my best dance moves, helping a man with his pool game by knocking his striped balls into the side pockets and making friends left and right.

As I was heading for the door, my eyes landed on a motorcycle helmut. A festive one, resting all by it’s lonesome, engulfed in painted flames. I did what came naturally: put it on my head, started dancing and shaking my index fingers like they were wands and screamed “Hurry! Take a picture! Did you get it?! It’s sweaty in here!!”

Sweet Jesus lord, with every adult beverage, my age decreases by 4 years, which must be why I was acting like a 12-year old. Just call me Benjamin Button.