When the pain of this is worse than the fear of that

While I wait for my dissertation chairperson to review the umpteenth draft of my concept paper, I have some time to reflect once again on the purpose of my existence. If such a thing exists.

I just finished re-reading a wonderful book called Silverlock by John Myers Myers, a book I have read many times, savoring every word. Silverlock starts out his adventure as a snarky shipwreck survivor lost off the coast of San Francisco. Magic causes him to drift into a literary fantasy land known as the Commonwealth. After dramatic adventures involving heroes and villains culled from obscure literary references, he is dragged to the depths of hell, where he is forced to defend his existence, desperately crafting arguments to prove that life is worth living, despite all evidence to the contrary. As he is giving into despair, he is granted permission by the Delian Court to continue his journey because he has a cosmic mission to fulfill, if he can: to drink three times from the mythic spring of Hippocrene. The first drink is for recollection, so he won't forget what he's seen and learned in the Commonwealth. The second drink will give him the way to find his way back to the Commonwealth. The third is “the maker's drink,” no limit on what is possible. When he finally arrives, Silverlock manages two sips before he is magically thrown back into the Pacific to await rescue by a passing freighter, a changed man blessed with awareness of the gift of life. After reading Silverlock, I no longer have the will to complain. That is the power of a good book.

Maybe we all have an internal mythical spring of Hippocrene, beckoning us toward our dreams. It would be pleasant to think so. I'm a skeptic. I get irked with all the Do What You Love and Money Will Follow disciples, because my experience has demonstrated that it is a fallacious philosophy. But I'm a chronic malcontent. I'm genetically predisposed to look on the dark side. My bliss could be biting me in the ass right now and I wouldn't know it.

When I was young I didn't realize that the life I would lead later is the accumulation of all the little choices and actions I took from day to day, year to year. I never made the connection between my actions and my future. The times when I said no when I should have said yes, or the other way around, the harsh words spoken, the unfeeling shoulder, the desperate demands, the immersion in anything that would take away the pain of living... those moments were the building blocks of the life I have now. I don't think I'm complaining so much as having a small epiphany, tinged somewhat with regret, I admit.

Equipped with this realization, what now? Every action I take today helps construct my tomorrow. I guess it's like voting. If you didn't vote, you have no right to complain. I'm either running with the big dogs, or I'm cowering on the porch. I'd like to say I'm courageous, but I don't know what actions would demonstrate my courage. When my pain of the present is worse than my fear of the future, then I guess I'll change.

What to do about that pesky Reply All button

So much to rant about, where to begin, where to begin...

First, I suppose I should grudgingly mention that the weather has been.... fantastic! You know when I said fall was here, and I was all doom and gloom over it? Well, huh, go figure, I was wrong. The Pacific Northwest is having glorious halcyon days like you wouldn't believe. The tomatoes are red! Shocking! (The last two years, they stayed green right into winter.) If it weren't so cold at night, and if there weren't drifts of dead leaves on the steps in the park, I would think it was still August, not almost October. We haven't had any rain to speak of in over two months. Did you hear me, two months! In Oregon! Yes! I know! Too many exclamation points!

So against the backdrop of this delicious weather, we wrapped up the term in its stinking shroud and buried it good and proper. The long commute to Wilsonville is over, at least for ten weeks. How did Excel go? Thanks for asking. I flunked the Voc Rehab woman who wept and begged me not to. I flunked the guy who threatened to bring his shotgun to school. In Access, the whining blonde paralegal who threw up her hands and left without finishing her final, fuming, “This is so stupid!” got a B, believe it or not. (She had someone at home doing her homework for her.) A few sorry ass souls received the Ds they earned fair and square. But, yay!— a few students got As, and they earned those As (in spite of me, I could add, although I'd like to take some credit. I think my test reviews are pretty good).

There's no time to take a breath and relax. Yesterday I spent a few hours grading finals, trying to submit my grades before 12:30 pm. Didn't quite make it before it was time to troop downstairs to Room 101 for in-service. All the usual nutcases and wackjobs were there, assembled in one frigid room, noshing on baloney sandwiches. (Rather than get pizza or wraps, the food coordinator thought it would be a nice change of pace to present a poor-white-trash menu: white bread, velveeta cheese, potato salad... Luckily for me, I brought my own protein powder.) The nutcases and wackjobs I refer to are my colleagues. Four times a year we are required (by the State of Oregon who authorizes our college to grant degrees) to have teacher training, also known as in-service. I get to see some teachers I haven't seen for a while, and a few I probably wouldn't miss.

We were required to attend three back-to-back sessions of scintillating material designed to magically transform us into better instructors. The first session, held in a dark room lit only by a PowerPoint slide, was memorable for the statement spoken by the presenter (who happens to also be my boss): “Everyone who is here is valued.” I wrote it down, because it was worded so awkwardly. The subtext: The ones who aren't valued have been let go. I guess it's clear that all the people that got laid off over the past few months, including those whose last day was yesterday, weren't valued. And oh, by the way, yes, the school is moving next year, but as yet the location is undisclosed. (Why do I suspect that one day I will show up to work and there will be a lock on the door and a scrawled sign: We've moved! So long, suckers!?)

I had two choices for the second session: ethics or teaching tips. Neither session really appealed to me, but I went with the teaching tips workshop. (A discussion of ethics at a career college opens up a very deep can of squirmy Red Wigglers. Not a good scenario for the Chronic Malcontent.) The teaching tips session was presented by the school librarian. (Yes, we have a library, but it is in Wilsonville, not at podunck Clackamas, where we have what looks like a library—a room lined with obsolete law books—but apparently isn't really a library. In fact, we aren't allowed to call it a library, we have to call it the resource center.)

She looked the part. The librarian, let's call her Jane, is a fireplug of a woman, with a closely curled cap of auburn hair that reminds me of the hair on my Tiny Tears doll, before I cut it all off. Jane wore a dark blue pantsuit whose jacket didn't quite match the pants, plus a snappy flowered blouse. Of course, she had the ubiquitous gold-rimmed spectacles. (Is there a librarian in the world that doesn't wear glasses? Reading really messes with your eyesight, take it from me.) Not counting the crazy earth shoe strappy flats on her feet, all in all, Jane looked sharp, really put together.

I was a little perplexed when she read her introduction to us, although the reason for that became clear later on. What got my attention was her warning: “By choosing to stay, you are giving permission for something to happen!” Wha–? She looked up at us, laughed nervously, and made a joke about not seeing anyone getting up to leave. I thought, wait, did I just miss a chance to opt out of this session? I like Jane, so I stayed put, but I wondered what would happen if I tried that on my students on the first day of the new term. How many of them would take the hint and opt out with their feet to go hang on the verandah with the smokers?

I won't bore you with all the details of her session, but here's a brief synopsis: Do! Learn! Who is Emily? NLP and covert hypnosis, rapid learning methods, email me if you want the files, no, I don't have a website, pause, drop your tone, make your voice gravely, WIIFM, SIP. Ok. There you have it, the gist of Jane's session. I hope it makes you a better teacher, too.

The final session was well-attended. Unfortunately, it was assigned to the icebox room, which happens to have a large square pillar in it. I'm sure the temperature is not related to the pillar, but to see the PowerPoint show, I had to sit behind the pillar, in the corner, directly under the AC fan. The topic was Netiquette, presented by one of our hard-working adjuncts (one of the few that are left after layoffs decimated our ranks). I don't know where she found the time to put the show together, considering she taught 32 hours last term, but it was nicely done. I learned a few things, but all I really cared about was that she impress upon the Medical Department ignoramuses the proper use for the REPLY ALL button.

In case you searched on Reply All and somehow got this blog, the Reply All button lets you respond to a useless mass email (Please help me welcome Shannon, our new janitor!) with an equally large, equally useless mass email (Welcome, Shannon!), thereby sucking up valuable network bandwidth and filling everyone's in-boxes with mind-deadening clutter. In case you can't figure out how I feel from my snarky tone, let me just declare my abiding belief that people who misuse the Reply All button should be ejected forthwith from the establishment, do not pass GO.

Today I went to another non-work workshop that was supposed to be spiritually focused but sounded remarkably like the rah-rah pep talk sessions I sat through yesterday, so I left halfway through, searching for some peace before the new term starts on Monday night. I'm not ready. I have 28 hours and seven preps. Small class sizes, luckily, but Tuesday will be a busy day: six hours in the morning, five at night, with a quick drive home in between for a salad and a nap. The tedium continues. I can't generate any enthusiasm for the task of teaching: When I get a creative idea for a new teaching approach, I think, I don't have time to design a new interactive PowerPoint, or write a skit, or prepare a game. Besides, what's the use, I only have one student.

When I was running in the park this afternoon, savoring the warm air on my face, I remembered how happy I was to get this job. It was my miracle job. A job that lets me use my communication skills and creativity, with little supervision... how cool is that? Nine years later, I am grateful to have it, but not for the same reasons. I find there is little interest in my skills. My skills expand, but my attitude contracts. I fear I am growing more unemployable by the minute.

Over the next week or so, while my chairperson is ruminating over my concept paper, I hope I will be able to find some time to make some art or write something. And vacuum my car, take out the compost, and clean up the cat toys, dust bunnies, and dessicated hairballs. And at work, I'm going to show up, do my job, and try not to whine. Stay tuned.

Focus on the learning, not on the grade

Good news. My chairperson liked the Methods section of my concept paper. I am pleased (and embarrassed) to report that she praised my paper effusively, using words like “fantastic work,” and “absolutely wonderful research, detail, and thoughtfulness.” She's “thrilled” with what I'm doing. After barking up so many stunted trees, at last I seem to have found one that will bear fruit. Praise whatever higher power is in charge of scholarly pursuits.

Now the Literature Review section is hanging over my head. Unfortunately, I didn't get anything done on it this week. Friday was the make-up day for the Labor Day holiday, and it's testing time in my computer applications courses. I've ranted on that whole thing previously, so I won't bore you again with the pressures of reviewing for tests that few students are prepared for. I see the results of my labors when I grade the tests. That was my mission tonight. I spent some hours grading the Excel tests, and all I can say is, I'm really hopeful I may have a career as a scholar, because I suck as an Excel teacher.

I blame myself. Then I blame them. Then I blame the workbook format that we are stuck using for the time being. Then I blame Microsoft (why not?). And as long as I'm blaming things, ummm, how about Republicans and global warming? Okay, maybe not. Still, there are many variables at play here, and each student is different. For example, the guy who threatened to bring a shotgun to class got the lowest test score (not surprising), but the one multiple choice answer that everyone else in the class missed—he got right. Go figure. So in my defense, I would say it isn't a matter of blaming the teacher or the students. That's just the easiest thing to do. But it's not helpful, nor is it entirely accurate.

It's not normal for my students to fail tests, but Excel is one of our trouble spots: we throw brand new students into Excel in their first term, and then give them Word, Introduction to the Internet, and Keyboarding. Even for computer-savvy students, this is a lot of computer time. Imagine how it feels for the ones who have little experience with computers. (How do I select a range of cells, again? How do I save to my flashdrive?)

What cracks me up (in a rather fatalistic way) are the students who type in values instead of formulas and assume I won't notice. I download their test files right off their computers onto my flashdrive. I open their test files, and I see exactly what they have done. Their printouts may look accurate, but their file shows the story.   These are usually the students who bring in the homework from home (did someone else do it for them?), who spend their time in class surfing the Web, who rarely ask questions, who leave class early. I can't prevent a disaster if it is the natural order of things. Not everyone is ready to succeed. Some of us have to crash and burn a few times before we are ready to do the work.

Now I'm trying to imagine how I am going to face them on Tuesday morning, how I am going to tell them I have to take more of their precious class time to explain what they missed, where they went wrong, when so many of them are lagging behind on the homework. Which, of course, goes a long way toward explaining why several of them failed the test. I ran a little regression analysis using Excel to compare test scores to amount of homework completed. I'm no statistics wizard, but all signs point to there being a strong and significant correlation between the two. In other words, the students who did the homework had the highest test scores. Duh.

They are going to rip me a new one come Tuesday. I must do what I admonish them to do: keep my focus on the learning and not the grades. I must remember that their grades are not about me. Excel is not something you can tell, or even show... they must do, over and over and over, until they finally understand it. That is how I learned. There are no shortcuts, either in Excel or scholarly research. Not everyone gets it the first time. But if we keep at it, eventually we persist and succeed.

For those of you who think, yay, now Carol has time to meet for coffee or talk on Skype, it might be too soon to celebrate. I still have a lot of work to do to get this concept approved. But there's hope for the malcontent. At least for today. By tomorrow this time, I will have convinced myself the praise never happened, and everything still sucks.

Toward a theory of malcontentedness

I'm emerging from the long, dark, tortured night of the soul. I think. We'll know for sure after I finish the next version of my dissertation concept paper. I think at long last I have settled on my theoretical framework, one that makes sense with my topic and approach. I think. Of course, I could be wrong. Thinking has never been my strong suit, especially as I've grown older and my brain has turned to a pinched, parched husk in which thoughts rattle around like dried-up nuts.

If I'm not so good at thinking, what is left? Feeling? I can't say I'm all that good at feeling, either. Well. Wait, I take that back. I'm pretty good at feeling anger in all its myriad forms: resentment, bitterness, martyrdom, snarkiness, you know, the typical expressions of a chronic malcontent. Anger is sort of a one-sided approach to expressing feelings, though, even I have to admit. Maybe if my life were different, I would be more likely to sprinkle some ebullience, effervescence, and mirth into the mix. Ha. The idea makes me smirk. When the hellish hand-basket freezes over. Ebullience is highly over-rated. And effervescence is for cleaning dentures. Which I can say with some relief I don't yet have.

So, is that all there is? Thinking and feeling? Cognition and affection? Wait, that can't be right. (Hey, I'm not a psychology major, cut me some slack.) The adjectives would be cognitive and affective. So, would the noun forms be cognition and affection? Bravadita will be able to tell me. Alas, alackaday, I'm caught up in terminology these days: social constructivism, systems thinking, expectancy-disconfirmation theory... la, la, la. To stretch my theoretical muscles, I shall now devise a theory of malcontentedness.

I propose that the condition of malcontentedness is a function of (a) my mood (which is a function of how much sun is striking the earth in the vicinity of Mt. Tabor); (b) the number of phone calls received during a day (more is bad, fewer is better); as a proportion of (c) hour the alarm goes off in the morning (not at all is best); multiplied by (d) how much money is in the bank account (obviously more is better); plus (e) whether or not I have posted in this blog within the past two days (level of malcontentedness decreases in proportion to the number of posts posted).

I could write the theory like this:

M =[ m(S) – P] 
--------------------
A ($ + B)

Where:
M = malcontentedness
m = mood
S = sunshine
P = number of phone calls received
A = hour the alarm goes off
$ = amount of dollars in my bank account
B = number of blog posts posted in past 48 hours

For those of you who are trying to make sense of this formula, don't bother. You will be relieved to know I am proposing a qualitative phenomenological design for my dissertation, in which I will be staying as far away from math as possible.

One person's mountain is another's mole hill, or something like that

You know how when you are out hiking and you see a hill in front of you, and you think, oh, if I just make it over that rise, then I'll be at the top. Then I'll have the world spread out below me. Then I can rest and enjoy the view. You know what I mean? And then you struggle to the top of the hill, and gosh darn it if there isn't another hill in front of you, an even higher one, that you couldn't see because it was hidden by the little one in front?

I just got to the top of the little hill. Yes, I'm pleased to say that I submitted the second draft of my concept paper to my chairperson today. I'm sure she'll have some edits, but for now, the thing is off my plate onto hers, and I hope she's hungry, because she's got 45 pages to read, not counting the annotated bibliography (which I bet nobody reads. I finally figured out the annotated bibliography is a drop-and-give-me-100 sort of exercise, designed to separate the whiners from the stoics. Stoics win.)

So what did I do after I got to the top of the hill? I felt strangely empty. I ran a couple errands in a haphazard, poorly planned fashion, and then I went home and took a nap. I wanted to keep sleeping. My head is full of June fog. Oh, wait. It's July now, isn't it. I guess I need to peel off June and see what barn or shed awaits me on the July page of whatever promotional calendar hangs on my wall. The weather was dull today, to match my brain fog and my mood. You'd think I would be elated, wouldn't you. Well, you would be wrong. For one thing, I'm a chronic malcontent. Elated is not in my lexicon of feelings. For another thing, look at my calendar. There are some massive mountains I must climb. This little hill was a gentle slope compared to what I fear is coming next.

I'm feeling anxious that this dissertation process is taking so long. I essentially re-wrote the entire paper (except for the annotated bibliography), so it was a fairly large undertaking. But there were many distractions along the way: work, cat, Mom... If I worked on the paper 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, it probably would have taken about two weeks. Maybe less. It took me two months of Fridays and half days on Saturday and Sunday. What's that, like twelve days? Yeah, that sounds about right.

I am so tired I can't think. I will finish this when I have some functioning brain cells.

Time to give up hope for a new past

My friend often admonishes me to stay out of the wreckage of the future. That is always a good reminder. I have a tendency to fret about the things that haven't happened yet. However, I can see the advantage of this tendency, believe it or not, despite being a chronic malcontent. For all you chronic malcontents (and you know who you are), pay attention. For all you Pollyannas, think about it like this: If you know are faced with a decision, it is important for you to see all sides of your dilemma before committing your resources to an action. Ask a chronic malcontent to play the role of devil's advocate! We are naturally skilled at looking at the dark side. We can help you minimize risk. And we work for dirt cheap, too, because we don't see any point in asking for what our advice would be worth. See, who knew being a chronic malcontent had a bright side! Hire a malcontent today!

This morning I attended a workshop on... well, essentially the topic was Looking on the Bright Side, not in so many words. Fewer than a dozen people sat around a loose rectangle of old folding tables, staring out the window, at the ceiling, at the clock. Anywhere but at each other. Some of the people were well known to me, others were strangers. Didn't matter, old friends, new people... I kicked the legs of the table, feeling alien and out of place. I hate workshops where I can't hide out in the back of the room, drawing silly pictures in my journal. I draw pictures anyway, even if I have to be a visible member of the group, but I don't like it. I'd much rather do what my students do, and pretend like I can escape notice. Anonymity should extend to visibility, in my opinion. Like, please, ignore me, I'm not here. I'm not a real person, I just play one on TV.

As always happens when I think there is no purpose or meaning to existence, someone says something brilliant that nails me between the eyes, bringing me back to earth with a thump. Ouch. Busted. Today I heard someone say, “It is time to give up hope for a new past.”

This is me. When I'm not fretting about the future, I am dwelling on the past, trying to rewrite history, indulging in the if-onlys. (See a previous rant.) You know what I mean. Stuff like... If only I had finished college back in 1978, when I had only a year to go. If only I hadn't tried to make money doing something I absolutely despised (sewing), instead of focusing on my art. If only I hadn't spent so much of my life orbiting other people instead of creating my own space. Bla bla bla. The if-onlys get a bit repetitive after I've hashed and re-hashed them a gazillion times. (I'm sure there is a food joke about hash somewhere in there, but I'll let you imagine it. It will be a lot funnier that way.)

How much time and energy have I spent trying to create a new past? What a total waste.

Wait, time out for a song. I can't really express my angst while Michael Nesmith is warbling “Tumbling Tumbleweeds.” Too bad I can't sing, I'd serenade you. Hey, sing along with me! See them rolling along... pledging their love with a song? Wha? Tumbleweeds fall in love? Tumbleweeds can sing? I must have it wrong. I can never understand lyrics. (Like, Wrapped up like a douche, another loner in the night... come on, don't tell me you don't sing it like that.)

As bad as my if-onlys get, though, I have only to think of Mary to realize I got off easy. Mary calls me on the phone every two weeks and reads me excerpts from her journal writing. She doesn't want feedback. She wants the relief that comes from unburdening her soul to another human being, one who won't judge (out loud, anyway), won't criticize, and won't hang up on her. It is hard not to judge Mary. She is stuck in the past, blocked from evolving into a viable functional human by two events that have defined her life ever since. The first is the typical horrific account of child abuse. The second was some harsh words directed at her by her best friends in high school. (She's 45 now.)

Mary has been calling me for almost two years, every other week. At first, I was uncomfortable with my role as listener. I felt obligated to respond with appropriate noises, maybe offer a comment or two at the end of the tirade. Now I rarely make a sound. I play Mahjong, and as I click the tiles, her words become poetry, by turns poignant, stark, riveting, trivial. She's too immersed in her pain to hear how funny she is. She is crying to heaven. I'm just a channel, a conduit, through me straight to god. At least, that is what she hopes. (Since I rarely speak, I haven't told her that I'm a chronic malcontent whose personal philosophy skirts a fine line between fatalism, cynicism, and nihilism.)

Mary is trapped in an unbearable present, terrified of the future while hoping for a new past. Maybe there is another advantage being a chronic malcontent. No matter what I think or feel or say, I can never take it too seriously. If I ever stop laughing at my quirks and foibles, please take me out back and shoot me. I'm counting on you, don't let me down!

Oh, poor thing, you made it up the stairs and everything

So far this morning, in an effort to avoid working on my dreaded concept paper, I've cleaned the cat box, cleaned the human box (AKA the toilet), taken out the trash and the recycling, done a load of laundry, and roasted a batch of beets and a batch of yams. And it's not even noon! Look at me go, I'm a dynamo! Isn't it amazing how productive I can be when I'm avoiding doing the work that really matters. Remember the four quadants: Important but Not Urgent is the quadrant that always goes begging. I'm currently mired in the Important and Urgent quadrant. Yes, all this stuff needs to be done—eventually. It doesn't have to be today. I know what I am doing: I'm procrastinating by being super efficient. And, sadly, highly ineffective.

And before I start mopping the kitchen floor, I am taking time to blog. (Probably there is a 12-Step program for this malady, if I could figure out what to call it.)

Despite everything, even the chronic malcontent smiles sometimes. Two good reasons to smile today. First, today is the second day of summer. The sun is shining just like it is supposed to. The sky is blue, it's 67°F, on the way up to 85°F. Clouds will roll in tonight, according to Bruce Sussman, and tomorrow the temperature will drop like a stone as the clouds unleash rain and wind. But today, it's summer, and life is good.

Here's the second reason. I know life is good because I found a favorite sock I've been missing for weeks. Cotton, oatmeal-colored, super soft and comfy... not much use if there's only one. (Unless I get the flesh-eating streptococcal disease and lose a foot.) But somehow I knew that, unlike most of my missing socks, this one was going to come back to me. And sure enough, today I descended the steps into the normally dark basement laundry room and there, illuminated in a ray of sunshine that miraculously found its way behind the washing machine, was my AWOL sock, resting on the concrete floor in a nest of dust and detritus.

It reminds me of how I got the job at the career college. (Yes, it resembles a nest of dust and detritus, but that isn't what I meant.) I'm remembering how I sent a résumé  in response to an ad for a marketing adjunct instructor, no master's degree required, and after a short period of disappointment, forgot all about it. Almost two years later, I got a call from the program director of the business/general education department in Wilsonville. Would I be willing to teach a couple marketing courses? I was like, who is this? And the rest is history. (I'm still asking, who are these people, the invisible leaders of this bizarre excuse for an organization? But I digress.)


I'm not sure I would hang onto a single sock as long as my employer held on to my résumé. Still, my point is, good things can happen, even if they don't happen right away. 


Last night, my colleague and friend, Bravadita, remarked that someone suggested to her that she try to look on the bright side of life. Notwithstanding the fact that Bravadita's life pretty much sucks right now, the person seemed to be saying that (1) this sorry situation of stress-related rash and unemployment is Bravadita's fault (because we create our reality with our choices); and (2) if Bravadita really wanted to change things, she could, simply by focusing on the positive rather than the negative. 


Well, when I heard that, you can imagine the malcontent in me rose up to defend my worldview. “Ha!” I said intelligently. I was like, let me at her, my fist, her nose, bring it on! Very helpful reaction, Carol, to resort to violence to resolve a disagreement.  


What I realized is that my need to be right supersedes everything else in my world. My need to justify my worldview keeps me sifting through all the evidence to seize only the bits that confirm my beliefs. And it's interesting (to me, probably not to you) that despite the obvious evidence that good things can and do happen (even to me), I still am desperately committed to my malcontented position that life sucks and then we die. Despite the job. Despite the sock. 


The chronic malcontent in me rationalizes my intractable position by thinking (and sometimes saying out loud, to my embarrassment), well, the career college only hired me because they were desperate for a body to fill the empty class. They didn't really care who they hired. Any ignorant sucker willing to work for $17 an hour would do. And the sock, well, it's just a stupid sock. It's not like it's anything important. See what I do? It's like my brain can only see the negative. I've been malcontented for so long, it's a habitual reaction. It's chronic! I'm doomed. Even when the sun shines, I can't enjoy the moment: After I rejoice in the feeling of sunlight on my face, my second thought is: it won't last, tomorrow it will rain, and life will suck again.


Now that I've reaffirmed my worldview that life really is meaningless, pointless, and absurd, I can finally open up my concept paper and get to work. After I unload the dryer. And go for a walk. Hey, it's summer, what can I say. It will be gone by tomorrow.

Surrendering to the inevitable

Seeing my mother mending her bones in the rehab down the street is triggering my awareness that I spend a lot of my time believing in the silly misconception that I'm in control of my life. Wow. How's that for a sentence.

What would it be like to surrender to life? To stop fighting time and space, other people, my body... to just accept things as they are? Would my experience of my life feel any different?

Would I be able to feel some gratitude that my mother didn't break her neck falling down those concrete steps (which happen to be in front of my apartment)?

Would I be able to serenely accept that my new dissertation Chairperson is just a higher-paid version of the previous flaky Chairperson?

Would I be able to calmly accept that our 15-day dry spell was bound to end sooner or later, because even though there may be climate change, this is still the Pacific Northwest, and rusty is our natural skin condition?

Will I be able to calmly respond to the alarm clock when it goes off tomorrow morning at 5:30 a.m., instead of smacking it five times before I crawl resentfully out of bed?

I'd write more, but 5:30 rolls around awful quick, and I am not a morning person.

Launch the lifeboats, the ship is sinking!

The term ended today at the career college. Last week was spent preparing finals, administering finals, and grading finals to the few students who actually showed up. (I know, like, who wouldn't show up to the final?) I took time out from all the grading to wonder how some students could, despite ten weeks of reminders, pleas, and threats, turn in no work during the entire term and have an expectation of passing the course. And as I reflected on how few Access tests I had to grade (bonus!), an increasing amount of my time was spent wondering how long this career college is going to survive.

I love that terms are only ten weeks long. I hate that, after the term is over, we have no time to process or reflect on our 10-week journey. No time to think about what we would like to improve. No time to create new assignments we hope will be more engaging than the lame things we did last term. I submitted my last grade packet this morning, but some instructors will be spending their weekend grading. Grades are due Monday morning, and first thing Monday morning we launch into a new term. With so little time to reflect, grade, and prepare, how can we possibly do a good job?

I wish I had something good to say, some cheery and uplifting observation, sort of like the pithy and pointed remarks my father used to say, along the lines of, “Hey, you have a job, what are you bellyaching about?” I should be grateful. I'm not. What I am is burned out.

The amount of effort, angst, grief, and frustration that goes into the ending of a term and the prospect of beginning a new one has led me to one unsettling conclusion: I need a new job. But where can I find a job that pays me full-time wages for part-time work? Until I finish this stupid doctorate, I am stuck.

So what, who cares. In about eight weeks, I will have forgotten how crappy I feel right now.

A little more venting, and then I'm done. Today, in addition to the grading and prepping, as we do at the end of every term, we attended three hours of in-service workshops designed to make us better teachers. I could tell them what would make me a better teacher: Let me get enough sleep. Give me some time to process what I've experienced. A door prize of a school t-shirt or a Wells Fargo grocery bag is not going to cut it. My boss's boss, who is the business program director at another campus, sat by me in one session. He wrote something on a piece of paper and turned it so I could see it. He wrote, “I had zero starts.”

Zero starts! He told me we need 64 students at our site to break even. If every new student actually shows up on Monday, new starts at all three campuses will total 64. Clearly the ship has crashed on the rocks and is taking on water fast. Launch the lifeboats. Mucky-mucks, no cuts. We are watching you.

Speaking of mucky-mucks, they were around at the end of the day, lurking like the mostly invisible creatures they are, coming out after dark to flit around the building. At 5:00, we got the news: Time to leave. Evening orientation was canceled due to lack of enrollments. Everyone out of the building. As I lugged my bags full of last term's binders toward the door, I passed the president of the college and another man in a suit. Both looked quite relaxed, standing in the lobby, smiling. I wanted to ask them what they had to smile about, but I didn't. Oh wait, let me guess. I bet you have some pretty nice golden parachutes to save you if the company goes under. Not me. But I'm not going down with this ship. Last one out is fishfood. Beat you to the lifeboat.

Appearances are everything

I revised my concept paper according to the suggestions offered by my chair and resubmitted it, a process which took less than an hour. While I wait for a response, I am pondering yet another odd aspect of life—the inordinate power of appearances. That is, how things look often seems to have more impact than how things really are.

Let me give you some examples. People sometimes say I look tired. They don't ask if I am tired. They assume that I am tired based on my appearance. (In most cases, they would be correct.) Here's a better example. People often say I look angry. Because I am a chronic malcontent, over the years my bad attitude has carved a deep fissure between my eyebrows. You know how some people have laugh lines? Not me. I have a permanent scowl. My former significant other called it stinkeye, just one of the reasons we are no longer a couple. This vertical groove is present whether I am happy or sad, angry or elated. It is now a permanent topological feature on the landscape of my face. Only cosmetic surgery will make me appear happy.

But that is what I mean. It's just an appearance. On the surface I may look angry, but inside I may be happy. Well, if not happy, at least neutral. But you will never know if you don't ask.

In my family, success was closely tied to appearances. No one cared how you felt. It only mattered how you looked. If you looked good, then you were good. So simple, yet so destructive. My father wanted me to look like a girl. "Why don't you wear some of those nice Ship and Shore outfits," he asked me once. Now I know he just wanted me to be happy, and the path to happiness was to look good. At the time I interpreted his request as a demand for me to be someone else, some perfectly attired, traditionally coiffed creature that I could never be.

I spent a lot of time trying to look good. When that didn't make me feel good, I moved to Los Angeles and started wearing the most bizarre outfits I could create on my little Singer 503A. Think shiny black vinyl capes over jumpsuits with padded shoulders the size of small turkeys. Picture pale Oregon skin, spiked hennaed hair, and black-burgundy lipstick. Since then, anytime I feel like I'm losing my sense of self, I shave my head. It's my way of reclaiming my identity.

I have a co-worker I will call Sheryl. She and I are often mistaken for one another. Because I had a sister, I know what it feels like to be mistaken for another. I'm used to it. When students call out for help, I answer to Carol, Sheryl, and everything in between. It's odd, though, because Sheryl and I look nothing alike. Apart from the obvious facts that we are female and on the downside of middle age, we have few similarities. Sheryl is blonde. I wear a black cap, so who knows what color my hair is. Sheryl wears brightly colored clothes. I strive everyday to impersonate Johnny Cash. I'm pretty sure Sheryl doesn't shop at Goodwill. The only things I buy new are underwear, socks, and shoes: Everything else I wear has been well broken in by someone before me.

In temperament we are dissimilar as well. Sheryl is goodnatured, committed to her job, and devoted to her students. I, on the other hand, am a chronic malcontent, committed to nothing, and devoted mostly to getting enough light. But I do my best to show up and maintain the appearance that I care. After all, I may feel chronically malcontented, but I can look good doing it.

It's always something

One of my favorite movie lines is from a movie called Elizabethtown:  "If it's not this, it would be something else." That pretty much sums up my malcontented life these days. Just when I think I've cleaned up every scrap of paper on my big plank of a desk, made every phone call, responded to every email, washed every dish, the temperature drops and it snows.

It's not enough snow to cause a problem for me, living in the city, but my feet are constantly cold. I can't get warm, not even with socks rated for forty below. I hate being cold, especially my feet. I'd rather be drenched in warm rain than be dry and freezing. Right now, of course, we get the worst possible combination: wet and cold. It's (almost) spring in Oregon.

People sometimes accuse me of dragging around my own little gray raincloud. I can't help it. On cold, wet days, I am genetically predisposed to avoid seeing the bright side of life. If the sun comes out even for a brief moment, my head shoots up like a dog scenting a squirrel.

I have a lot to be grateful for, but I'm not feeling it right now, because my feet are so cold. I should be thanking the internet gods that I'm back online. (I guess those infant sacrifices finally worked). I should be heaving heavy sighs of relief that I finished revising the second draft of my concept paper (truthfully, it was 95% new material) and got it successfully uploaded to the course room, where it becomes my Chair's problem. Speaking of my Chair, I should be praising fate that she came back from her week to god knows where and actually responded to my email. I should be prancing around singing, "She's alive, alive!"

There is a theory about malcontentedness. Picture two tanks of water. In one there is a floating island. In the other, there is not. Picture two sets of mice, swimming for their lives in these two tanks of water. The mice in the tank with the island find the island and can rest there. Whew. The mice in the tank without the island swim until they are exhausted. As they are going down for the third time, they are rescued by the scientists. This process takes place over and over again. Finally, in the last experiment, the scientists take away the island, and set all the mice a-swimming together in one big tank. You may not be surprised to hear that the mice who were trained to find the island swam longer than the mice who never found an island.

Think about your family? Did you grow up in a family in which there was an island? In my family, there was no island. Thus, my malcontentedness. No hope. I'm always swimming, always drowning... even if you put an island in front of me, I won't believe my eyes. I will walk around it, stumble past it, tell you I can't see it.

It's hard to think. I'd write more, but my feet are cold.