Generation Meh

You may have noticed there have been more stories (I call ’em flash fiction because that’s about the length of my attention span) on the blog in recent months. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Maybe these stories will all come together in a cohesive end product or maybe only a few of them will, but there’s definitely something percolating.

I am pushy.

Not the kind of pushy that shoves ahead of you in line at the supermarket or takes your parking space or heckles wait staff or demands attention from everyone. No, I am the kind of pushy that looks for an opening, waits for the door to swing back just a crack and then barges right in. I tell myself that if people wanted to keep me out of their messes, they would have been more diligent with the locks. So, if I am here, hunched over your kitchen table, sweeping the crumbs to the floor, peppering you with questions, mapping out a game plan, it’s because you wanted this. You wanted me here. Maybe you’re trying to ignore me. Maybe you’re sulking in the corner or making tea or trying to explain in an increasingly less-calm tone of voice about how this is terrible timing and you really can’t deal with this right now and maybe we can reschedule? Nope, no cancellations, no refunds. You asked (even if you can’t remember doing so), I answered. Now you’re stuck with me. I don’t take up much space, I promise.

I start with questions. Well, sometimes, if you’re very nervous about this whole thing, I start with stories. I tell you something that makes you feel as if neither of us are crazy or that we’ve known each other for a very long time. And then, I get to work with the questions. I’m pretty good at this by now and I know that if I want to find out X, it probably works better to ask about Y. There are no right answers. There are answers that I like to hear because they’ll make my job easier, but I am just as interested in the harder answers or when you can’t come up with a response at all.

This is a delicate business, such a delicate business. There is a difference between pushing you on a swing set and pushing you off a cliff, you know? I’ve gotten better at knowing the difference, but I still make mistakes.  You seem ready. I think we have a rapport. Just one more little shove. But it’s one little shove too far. It’s over then. We both know it. In theory, there should be some way to patch things back together, but I haven’t found it yet. It’s not as simple as undoing your last move and the one before that and so on until we get back to okay and I can try a different tactic. No, the damage is done.  I always regret those cases, but I try not to be too hard on myself. I pushed because that’s what I do.  And I pushed because I thought you needed it and deep down that you wanted it and maybe you did, but it just wasn’t a push in the right direction or at the right time or from the right person (that part, I’m not so good at accepting yet). I try to clean up after myself as best I can and as quickly as possible. Scoop up all of my papers, stuff all of my ideas back into my bag, take my jacket and thank you for your time. That wasn’t so bad, was it? I ask. I don’t make excuses and I don’t let you make any either. No refunds, remember?

But those cases are getting rarer. My instinct for picking winners is improving all the time.

What if you didn’t back off? What if you didn’t stop to catch your breath? What if instead of two steps forward and one back, you made it three, hell, even four or five forward? Lurch, stumble, run, whatever. What if, when the going got good, you didn’t stop to consider the hows, whys and potential duration of said goodness, but you just kept going? Rocked a few boats, kicked over a few apple carts. Didn’t even stop to apologize.

Being cautiously optimistic is prudent. Analyzing your success for lessons learned and dissecting and refining your approach so that it’s infinitely replicable is smart stuff.  Being incremental is advisable. Except when it’s not. Except when head-shrinking your happiness doesn’t make you happier, it actually bleeds out the enjoyment and the spontaneity and the momentum. And then you realize that waiting and seeing has turned into waiting and sighing.

So, what if you don’t do that? What if you don’t get all measured and mannered, but instead keep pushing and pushing and pushing your luck as far as you think it will go and then some? I bet it will stretch a lot further than you think.

You should do that and then you should tell me what happens.

Recently, I was asked what I wanted and I couldn’t answer. It was one of those tipsy late-night conversations in which people feel almost duty-bound to ask dramatic, probing questions and then nod along sagely with your dramatic, probing answer because our whole lives are just poignant moonlit set pieces, yes? But I couldn’t answer. And even trying to come up with an answer left me stigmatic.

That bothered me. Words are my thing. Surety is my thing. Being the person who knows where she’s going and is already halfway there while you’re still puzzling over the map is my thing. And I didn’t have anything to say.  But I didn’t let the question drop. I kept working on it. Doggedly, even. I told myself that there was no right answer. This wasn’t a job interview trap. I didn’t have to sketch out the next 10 years right down to my future firstborn’s middle name. I just had to be able to articulate what I would like to do with my time if I had all of the resources to do it. And I just had to be honest.

I came up with:

• Write stuff
• Go places
• Have adventures
• Meet people

Unsurprisingly, what I happen to be doing now has elements of these things (as does what I could be doing), but not in a great enough supply that I feel as if I’m getting my fill. So I started working through my How To Get Unstuck plan (read it if you haven’t already) and plowed ahead to step 3. I started picking up threads that I had dropped. I reached out to people to say, “You know what? Everything has been nuts, but I want to pursue this idea. If you still feel the same way, let’s make it work.” And people responded enthusiastically. I also kept telling the truth, kept being inquisitive and questioned my impulse to edit at every step. Say it. Do it. Clean up only as much as is necessary. And I reached out to other people with, “Tell me more. I’m interested.” or “What do you think of this?” or “Here’s the deal.” and that mostly worked, too.  And I wrote a blog post in which I shared how and where things were and that really worked. People had been looking for a more personal connection here, something beyond pith and prescriptivism. I’ve known that for a long time now, but it’s never really felt like the right time or the right material. It probably isn’t the right time or the right material now, but I did it anyway. And I’ll keep doing it.

This is what I’ve figured out:

If you have your own idea, it makes you feel less like snatching someone else’s and jumping up and down on it until it’s mashed into the dirt. I get this now. And if you’re in motion, it’s hard to be mired in the mud at the same time. I get that, too. So, move. Move toward something. If it doesn’t feel good, move away from it.  Keep wandering in a big ol’ circle until something pulls you in one direction or another. Ask questions. Ask yourself. Ask others.

And don’t be too hard on anyone who can’t answer right away.

My coworker asks if I’m well.

“Well? Not really. Maybe well-ish, I guess?”

“Unacceptable, Sport”

“I’m fine. I’m here. I’m doing my job. The rest of it isn’t germane.”

“Germans? What Germans?”

Our internal phone system isn’t the greatest. And yes, he calls me Sport.

The point in this is that I didn’t lie. I didn’t do that chipper little upswing at the end of the word thing where I reply with, “I’m great!” like I work retail or am auditioning for a Frosted Flakes commercial. Because, you know what? Things are not great and I am not well. I am a stress monster and a sad bastard right now. And copping to that isn’t exactly a walk in the park. It started with losing the words and now we’ve skipped quickly to not eating, with a short stop at the hilarious stigmatic Virgin Mary statue stage where my eyes involuntarily water like I have a killer pollen allergy. And it actually stresses me out even more to pretend that I’m a-okay, even though pretending to be and defaulting to manic pixie dream girl problem solver is not only pretty easy, it’s almost expected now. People like blemish-free MPDGs who preach adventure and opportunity-seizing and will use all their powers of twee perception and persuasion and adorable $%&*# whimsy to coax you down from the emotional ledge and offer you some sweet tea once you’re back on solid ground. But damn, even manic pixie dream girls get the blues, ya know?

So, I’ve started telling the truth. And the truth is humbling and complicated and petty and mortifying and earnest and bold all rolled together and thrown up on your shoes. It’s professional and it’s personal. This is what I’m feeling. This is what I’m thinking. I want this. I don’t want that. I don’t know what I want. Maybe a drink. Maybe a clone. TBD.

It’s not strategic. It’s not a calculated risk. It’s not courageous. It’s not meant to endear me to you. It’s half “what-if” experiment and half  “I truly do not have the energy to play along right now. Raincheck?”

Yes, I acknowledge that it takes a certain talent to blog for two solid years in multiple venues and never give up much of substance about yourself. Part of it is natural reticence, part of it is the tone of this blog, part of it is control meets fear. So, if you know more about me as a person than the barest of character sketches, you’re in rarefied company.

But, for some reason, I can’t lie in this space. I can avoid posting or ply you with fiction, but I can’t stand behind writing that doesn’t represent what I genuinely feel and believe in at that moment. And right now, I feel like a 14-karat mess. And I could whip up a how-to piece on combating feelings such as these (without ever admitting I experience them myself), or I could be honest with you and say that I’m pretty sad and more than a little stressed and that I honestly do not know what will or should happen next. Even know-it-alls get confused.

“Are you well?”

“No, I’m actually not, but thanks for asking.”

I have no time for spare words. Words that get in the way of other words that tell the story I’m looking for. I am ruthless about getting rid of them. Like sweeping my arm across the table and pushing all of the small pieces to the floor. Take the tablecloth with them. Then you can put your palms facedown on the wood and know that you’re starting from somewhere solid.

That’s when I talk the best, think the best. When it’s okay to put my elbows up, drum my fingers against the tabletop and not worry about which fork and how not to spill the water. When it’s okay if I slump down in my chair or lean all the way forward to make sure you’re really paying attention to this. Because this is where it gets important.

Sometimes, people let me. And sometimes, you just know they will never drop that fork, so I don’t push. And sometimes, the table is already cleared when I get there.

Those are the best times.