February 12th, 2007
I have a friend who describes a funky day — the kind filled with both highs and lows — as a ‘curious’ day. I’m stealing his phrasing today as I think I had a curious day myself.
My morning started off well rested and well fed (I just love my banana bread oatmeal, y’all!) and surprisingly spry after five hours of sleep. I got to work 45 minutes early so I could re-write my resume and a cover letter before sending it off to my boss’s friend.
Can you believe that someone from work would contact his friend, the Director of Something or Other at a major movie studio, and say, ‘Flo is a good assistant. Can you get her a job?’? I was so flattered by the gesture that I could barely say thank you. I think my gratitude was expressed as, “Whoa. Are you serious?…Wow…uh, thank you! That’s so kind of you to do that for me. Oh my God, thanks.” I’m the temp — that stuff never happens to the hired help, right?!
I, being the calm, mellow person that I am, didn’t fully freak out ’til three or four hours later. Interviewing is so hard for me what with my racing heart, my inability to remember anything except my name, and my newfound penchant for starting every sentence with the word uh. Throw in Mr. Director of Something or Other going to bat for me and it’s just too much for my little nerves to handle!
So, of course, I put the whole resume and cover letter thing off a good week before sending it over today. Shortly afterwards Mr. DSO wrote me a nice little email to say he passed on my resume to a friend in human resources. If I’m not contacted within the next week, I should feel free to give him (Mr. DSO) a call…
Are you thinking what I’m thinking? If you said, “Whoa. Are you serious?…Wow…uh, thank you! That’s so kind of you to do that for me. Oh my God, thanks,” then you are correct!
I walked into my boss’s office — he’s one of the top three dudes in the company and just six months older than me, oy! — and repeated the email and all of my predictable whoas and wows (heartfelt but still completely predictable). My boss, who speaks and thinks at 100 mph, said, “He’s a good guy to build a report with, by the way. AND he’s cute…”
[Before I go any further, I should probably mention that my boss, let's call him Mr. Principal, has offered to set me up on dates since my first week with the firm. That 'Let's set Flo up with a billionaire! She's 35! That's even better than the 40 year old (he's banging!)' joke sparked some real talk about elegible men -- rebound and marriage material alike -- I should get to know, in every sense of the word! Photos were shown, references were made (such as, 'Hey, what do you think of Marvin? Don't you think he'd be good for Flo? He's one of my closest friends and a great, great guy.') I didn't take it seriously until Mr. Principal started making calls. There was a whole lot of, "No, no, no, no, no, no,no, no! I was just kidding. No, really, hang up the phone!" on my part until Mr. Principal finally put down the phone!
Since then every Friday workday ends with Mr. Principal saying something like, 'When I come in on Monday, I want to hear that you've been bad this weekend! Come on, Flo, you need to get back out there.' Of course, that means that every Monday starts with, 'Come on, girl, tell me what you did this weekend! Anything good? No? Flo you've got to get out of your apartment, meet people and get into some trouble!']
Mr. Principal shrugged, “…but he’s short. He’s only 5′ 10″.”
I gasped. Cute, kind-hearted, gainfully employed, highly recommended AND 5′10″?! “5′ 10″ isn’t short! I’m 5′ 10″!”
“He is the nicest guy, Flo. I’m not just saying that…If I was going to set up my sister with a guy, it would be him. He’s the nicest guy — unlike the rest of my friends! And me!”
On my drive back to the Valley, I wondered when I’ll finally stop hurting myself. If it’s not the panic attacks, or me ‘forgetting’ to take the medications that would stabilize my depression and anxieties (it has to be on a subconscious level, right?), then it’s my body literally attacking itself (rheumathoid arthritis). Where did this self-loathing come from? Why can’t I let myself be happy? Will this madness ever go away?…That’s when my favorite radio station, Indie 103.1 played the Smith song, “There is a light and it never goes out.”
Not the most cheerful song ever written, but it strangely resonates with my current separation/divorce angst. Truthfully, it works with anyone’s angst and self-pity — that’s why the Smiths rule!
So I drove over Mulholland, quietly listening to Morrissey’s personal brand of anguish until I heard this:
That’s when I snorted! I love that its humorous, gloomy and (this is the big one) makes my life look cheerful by comparison! I laughed all the way down Coldwater Canyon.
I received a call in the early evening regarding someone I know who may have some very serious health problems. Not sure what to make of that just yet. I think I’ll wait a few days, hear about the test results (if they’re offered to me), then re-access whether or not to freak out. No, it’s not lost on me how funny it is that I don’t freak out when I finally have a real reason to do so. Didn’t see that one coming, did you?
There is a light and it never goes out,