Failure & Me February 2, 2010

30 Years + 4 Months + 3 Weeks + 5 Days…

***

So it’s Feb. 2^nd and I’m still unemployed.  Even groundhogs have gotten more work action in 2010 than me.  You know I’m a bit Type A, so not only is this not good for my general mental and emotional well-being, it’s also unfortunate for all the busy hiring managers out there in fields so far from my skill set—like, oh, international security—receiving creative cover letters from a desperate, unemployed writer.  In fact, I’m even worse than a regular writer—I have a screenwriting degree, which is about as useful to the world outside of Hollywood as an ice-skating giraffe.

The corporate banking job I keep buying and wearing dreadful pantyhose for 8 million rounds of interviews is still up in the air and my adorable Los Feliz sublet expires next Wednesday.  My bank is broke.  I seek therapy in online horoscopes (eek!).  Talk about a ticking clock…

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Three years ago I worked here:

Gorgeous.  I know.

But while my colleagues gossiped about alcoholic curators and pop art blogs I would escape during lunch to the gardens and write…

…dreaming of the day I didn’t have a 9 to 6 job where I was focused on someone else’s passion.  Writing was the dream.  A not-impossible dream I could reach for.  So I went for it—a calculated risk.  If I build it, they will come, right?  As in my mad skillzzz…and big Hollywood development deals.

Now ice-skating giraffes are pretty darn cool, but they were never in demand like nurses or waste collectors.  And as the economy worsened and entire studio departments laid off, even Hollywood didn’t have as much use for them…especially baby giraffes who just learned how to tie their skates, let alone land a triple lutz.

And so here I am.  Looking for another day job.  And even my transferable admin skills like “master of organization and detail” (a.k.a. anal, neurotic freak) can barely get me an interview.  Perhaps it’s due to my writing background and therefore potential “flight risk” or maybe the economy is that bad.

So what happens if I don’t get an offer or even a new nibble by Feb. 10^th?  Do I couch surf with kind friends until something eventually, finally comes through?  Living out of a suitcase and in someone else’s way gets real old, real fast.  Or do I re-pack up my Chevy hatchback, drive cross country, and move in with my parents in Mechanicsburg, PA?  Admit that my “fear of failure” finally caught my type-A arse off guard, weak, and vulnerable?

Or is that black and white?

What is failure?

According to dictionary.com…

FAILURE

–noun

1. an act or instance of failing or proving unsuccessful; lack of success: His effort ended in failure. The campaign was a failure.

2. nonperformance of something due, required, or expected: a failure to do what one has promised; a failure to appear.

3. a subnormal quantity or quality; an insufficiency: the failure of crops.

Sign me up for definition one…but, huh…that is a vague and transient phase, isn’t it?  You could fail at catching a ball one minute…but catch the next.  And I definitely don’t fit into categories 2 or 3…

In my twenties I thought the ultimate failure was living in (or moving back to) Mechanicsburg.  While I lived the high life in LA I judged my high school colleagues who stayed behind, started families, and worked at Office Max.  But now I probably couldn’t even get a job at Office Max.

And to complicate things even more, my father was just re-diagnosed with lymphoma after a two-year remission.  The chemo treatments are unbearable enough, demanding lots of time off of work for both of my parents, but he’ll also have to undergo a stem cell transplant in April or May.  That includes three weeks of intense in-hospital treatment, followed by a 3-MONTH RECOVERY.  Now if you think I’m type A, you have no idea how terrible this is to my dad.  The man works a full-time managerial job + a second career as a concert pianist.  He’s already frustrated the oncological team enough with trying to put off his treatments so he won’t have to miss certain performances.  As a daddy’s girl, his struggle kills me.

Three years ago, when he went through World War 1 with this—and the diagnosis was very grim (they found it at stage 4)—I wasn’t able to help.  3,000 miles away and in a top graduate program my father insisted I stay in LA and focus on my goals.  Even now, he just wants me to “get a job and be stable.”  Interesting though, how now, when I literally have nothing going on, that he could use my help again.  Heck.  This is the stuff life and stories are made of.

So what is failure?  Is it moving back home with your parents?  Or is it taking a banking job that you don’t want just because it pays the bills and then some?  Or is it giving up on your dream?  Or is it NOT moving back home with your parents when they could really use your help just so you can pretend that all is good in H-wood?  Or caring what others think?  ALL OF THE ABOVE?  Or NONE of the above??

Perhaps that’s something shiny and new that comes with the New Twenty…the realization that failure is what you make it…and make OF it.

I’ll leave you with this link…for if J.K. Rowling says it’s ok (and GOOD) to fail…then bring it:

http://www.ted.com/talks/jk_rowling_the_fringe_benefits_of_failure.html

Three Med Students and a Writer… January 26, 2010

30 Years + 4 Months + 2 Weeks + 5 Days…

***

…walk into a bar.  Just kidding.  This isn’t that kind of joke.  Yet…

I am living with three male third-year medical students for a month until I get my life in order.  At least that was the plan when I found the Los Feliz sublet a few weeks ago.  Time is now a tickin’ and who knows if I’ll convince someone with a living wage and benefits package to hire my artsy-fartsy arse by Feb. 10^th.

I’m still in interview purgatory and truly the thought of being an admin again makes me want to give up material wealth and good credit and hitchhike to Peru.

Regardless, I am enjoying my somewhat odd sublet experience.  Forget the fact that I’ve spent $100 on gas in just this past week alone since, oh, 98% of my friends live on the Westside.  Not only am I re-exploring one of my fav neighborhoods in LA, but I’m realizing how nice it is to live with someone—or in this case some dudes.

For anyone who has followed me from this blog’s beginning knows that my 2009 “living alone” experiment was a hilarious-bordering-on-frightening disaster.  I couldn’t really afford my overpriced Santa Monica rent with my less-than-stellar p/t salary, the heating system was from 1905, I lived two doors down from an illegal homeless tenement that looked like a schizophrenic’s personal junkyard (that was finally shut and torn down a few months ago), often was forced to park three blocks away late at night, and lest we not forget crazy Enrique.

Of course there were some benefits like walking naked from the shower to my bedroom and I didn’t have to negotiate TV time.  However, at the end of the day, no matter how nice it was to be living selfishly and decorating every inch of the place how I wanted it…it was lonely.  I missed having someone to chat to about the day and knowing if you locked yourself out of your place you know someone had your back.

It’s funny and fascinating to watch these 25 year-old bright, friendly guys balance such an intense school schedule (30 hour shifts on surgical rotations…!) with working out, dating, and just plain life.  My internal cliché of what a medical student looks and acts like is definitely blasted to smithereens.  And they’re just as curious about me—a creative person—and what that wild and crazy life track entails.  Last night I tried to explain how the entertainment business worked to my most inquisitive roommate in less than five minutes.  I might have confused him for life.

Will I be quasi-homeless again in a couple of weeks?  Perhaps.  For right now I’m trying to just go with the flow…and keep my career/life freak-outs to a minimum.  Some days are better than others.  Like this morning I frantically googled a million ways to find a dream job somewhere on the internet for a writer like me.  Unfortunately…those jobs don’t really exist—or at least they’re not advertised for random people with no proven track record.  I will get there…with a blog, script, or story + being in the right place at the right time…

But for now why beat myself up for sleeping in until 9 a.m. on a Tuesday when it may be my last week or two to do for quite a long time?  And why not let my roommate wash my coffee mug?  He swears he doesn’t mind.  I scrubbed the bathroom top to bottom.  Yay for teamwork!  And for being more than a punchline.

SELLING OUT…or SIMPLY SURVIVING? January 21, 2010

30 Years + 4 Months + 2 Weeks

***

Yesterday I had my first “real job” in-person interview since 2003.  And by “real job” I mean one where you have to wear (GAG!) pantyhose underneath your conservative-length business skirt and carry your resumes in a self-important briefcase instead of a boho-chic backpack…or Five-Star Notebook-brand folder.  The latter of which I almost did…

Since I sold most of my stuff pre-Oz and much of the rest is still in friends’ garages (storage for the poor), I couldn’t find my classy, leather-bound notebook/folder/pen combo my parents bought me upon college graduation.  All I had at my disposal was a navy blue Five Star folder amidst a stack of printing and resume paper I grabbed with at least the tiniest bit of forethought for post-holiday job-hunting.  Perhaps my subconscious didn’t actually think I’d ever get to the interview phase (not too crazy an assumption considering my 2009 track record) since that’s when said leather-bound case is needed.

Anyway, since this job is far from my dream writing gig…so far in fact that it involves bankers and Blackberrries…that I almost took that darn Five Star folder just to spite them…or maybe myself.

I mean, it’s a damn folder.  To keep my resumes dry and wrinkle-free.  Does it really matter that it’s more fitted for a frat boy on his way to English 101?  I mean, I’m poor.  Like so poor I have to keep checking my credit card balances to see if I can charge one more tank of gas without it pushing it over the credit limit edge.  How necessary is it for me to go purchase another leather-bound notebook/folder combo when the only time I pull the damn thing out is for interviews that I have about once every 2-3 years?

Deep breathes…

Right.  This wasn’t really about the folder.  I’m pretty sure it had more to do with the fact that even at The New Twenty I’m still headed in a career direction that isn’t in line with what makes me happy.  Or creatively fulfilled.  Or COOL.  Yes, I swear I’m not a fourteen year-old girl.

Yet in this economy…just to have a job…even if it’s a job you hate or a job “for now until I get my big break”…you’re lucky.  Because people…I’ve been applying to assistant-y and writing-ish related jobs like an ADHD rock star since Jan. 1^st and the only interviews I’ve gotten…are for this non-dream job…and much thanks to dear friends who gave me a good recommendation.

Yes, I want to be a writer.  A paid writer who doesn’t have to justify her existence every time someone asks what she does “for a living.”  But I also want to eat.  And unpack my stuff.  In an apartment.  Preferably with a roof.  And I want to stop living in a constant state of financial terror.

So it’s a job where no one cares about your creativity and killer sense of humor.  They care if you’re smart, organized, and know that it’s not ok to carry a high school notebook to a 24^th floor conference room interview.

I bought a second leather-bound notebook/folder/pen combo at a random CVS…in the pouring rain…on my way to the interview.  It cost me $15.85.  I hope that it turns out to be $15.85 very well spent.

The interview went well, despite my soggy, safety-pin clipped pants and awkwardly wavy, damp hair.  Round two is tomorrow…with perhaps even a third round of in-person interviews next week.  Like I said.  It’s a “real job”.  Wish me luck, please…because while sure, I may sell out a bit (for now)…I’m also trying to just survive like the rest of us.

UP IN THE NEW YEARS AIR January 3, 2010

30 Years + 3 Months & 27 Days

***

I owe you, dear loyal blog reader, an apology.

I cheated on you with my “30 year-olds aren’t really meant to backpack” Aussie trip travel blog and I’m sorry.  Those make-up blogs I promised are on their way (I swear, really, it was just a one time thing!) and…I even brought fuzzy, dream-inducing flowers…

Distance makes the heart grow fonder, right?  And boy have I accumulated some ridiculous “New Twenty or Bust” stories and updates for you in the very near 2010 future.

As we all know the year 2009 was chock full of crap.  I was going to say challenges, but let’s face it…we’re all happy the last decade, and especially this past year, is over.  Never in my 30-ish years of life have I seen so many people of all ages so desperately optimistic for a brighter batch of 365 days.

AND I AM ONE OF THEM.

So.  Come on “New Twenty” and 2010…forget the lemons and just bring the juice!

As for where I’m at right now…well, I’m writing from a charming, little café in Santa Cruz, CA about a block away from the winter-kissed Nor Cal ocean.  It’s 60 degrees and sunny.  I’m crashing on my sister’s bohemian-chic bed with at least four down comforters.  Life is good.

Technically my imminent future/career/love life is all still up in the air.  All I do know is that I’m heading back to LA with my jam-packed hatchback on Wednesday and I’m more than likely giving Hollyweird another go.

One of the many things I learned about myself while staring at Australia’s stunning tropical waters I couldn’t swim in thanks to death-inducing “stingers” for weeks on end is that I’m not quite ready to give up the screenwriting/writing dream just yet.  I do need to get a job that pays the bills and maybe even comes with some kind of health insurance so that I no longer have to go to Lens Crafters when my I practically rip out my cornea.  This is ok.  I will survive the stepping-stone.  I also need to find an (affordable) apartment in an area a location scout wouldn’t consider for the next SAW installment.  I’m ready to face the freak show, work hard, and make things happen.

And now I have to be honest (as usual, blah).  While I’m back and here to stay at The New Twenty or Bust I’m going to blog about 2-3 times a week from here on out.  That is more manageable than shooting for 5-6 and feeling frustrated and guilty all the time when I only made it to 3 (or none as the last two months have crashed and burned).  I feel frustrated and guilty (and OLD) enough on my own.

So again…

HAPPY NEW YEAR, friends, and my homeless ass will be in touch soon…

Down Under… November 24, 2009

30 Years + I’ve Lost Count of the Days…

***

Yes.  That’s right.  I am not dead.

This is a lame apology to anyone who has still kept some hope alive that I would come back.  From quitting my job, to moving out of my place and becoming *technically* homeless and leaving the country for a month I’ve totally slacked on this blog.  I’m not proud of it.  The topsy-turvy turmoils of 30 year-old-hood are still alive and well and I will absolutely be back in a big, badass way very soon.  I’m out of the country until December 16th so between now and then I’ll try and get a few posts up (as I also have another blog that is travel-related in the current mix).

Please don’t give up on me.  Trust me.  I give great make-up…blogs.

Be back soon…

Halloween is the new New Years. November 5, 2009

30 Years + 59 Days

***

A major difference between the Old Twenty and the New Twenty for most people is the amount of enthusiasm for dressing up for Halloween.  Your average 20 year-old loves to scour thrift stores, costume shops, lingerie stores, etc. for the perfect get-up to catch a special someone’s eye.  Your average 30 year-old is probably married with a child or two and is therefore trick-or-treat chaperoning or handing out sugary snacks to the masses of ADHD American children.  Parent costumes optional, but encouraged, because it’s still fun as you’re doing it for the kids.

But people I’m single, lazy, and broke.  These days I’d rather save the $80, rent a few scary movies (or even a rebellious romantic comedy or two), and drink spiced apple cider while downing bite-size Snickers by the dozens.  In my non-Halloween-themed pajamas.  Maybe I’ll wear Halloween socks.  But that’s it.  A perfect, cozy fall evening.

But I live in LA…

…so I’m not allowed to do that.  Why?  Because LA (and NYC, etc.) don’t attract your “average” person.  LA transplants and perhaps most urbanites aren’t on the fast train to adulthood, so most of us New Twenty folk are just as immature and party-ready as we were at age 20 (or at least a fraction thereof).  And we strive for the glamorous life…and fine, Halloween socks and Old Navy boxers are not glam.

So as Halloween came closer and closer my denial of actually having to leave my apartment for the evening became squashed by friend pleas of “Oh, come on, you HAVE TO COME OUT!!!  It’s Halloween!!  It’s like the biggest holiday in LA!  You’ll be so depressed if you stay in!!!”

What does this sound like?  Another not so favorite holiday: NEW YEARS EVE.

Now, I love the idea of New Years.  I’ve even had a few good-ish ones.  But I’ve never had a GREAT one and one New Years in particular was one of the worst days of my adult life.  And the most annoying part about it is all the PRESSURE to have an amazing night.  If you don’t have fab plans, a warm body to kiss at midnight…then New Years just sucks…at least a little…and if you don’t agree you’re just not being honest.  Have you seen the movie 200 Cigarettes?  GREAT MOVIE about New Years.  Love it.

Anyway, I went out for Halloween.  I wore an old dance leotard, cream-colored fishnet stockings from Urban Outfitters I bought years ago, but never wore, and a green tutu.  My friend spun it as a “ballet school drop-out” so I wouldn’t have to walk around in my ballet shoes and could wear my hair down.  Yes, I am Queen Lazy Costume and I’m proud of it.  I even wore my soon-to-be trashed cowboy boots to make myself happy inside.

I did have a good time.  But not an amazing time.  It was great to see LA BFF whom I hadn’t seen in a couple of weeks.  I wanted to avoid the West Hollywood Halloween parade chaos (think hundreds of thousands of costumed people walking Santa Monica Blvd. amidst lots of tourists and cops)…yet we didn’t.  In the end it was all ok.  Plus there is a tiny chance this could be my last Halloween in LA, so perhaps it happened for a reason.  Who knows…

But I do know I think Halloween is the new New Years.

(Almost) Homeless… October 30, 2009

30 Years + 52 Days

***

It’s about that time to start going through all of my stuff and decide what I absolutely must hold on to and what I can get rid of, sell, donate, you name it.  This is hard for a card-carrying pack rat like myself.  Sure I don’t pay any conscious attention to most of my accumulated “stuff” until I have to dust and/or move it.  But it’s all part of me—of my history—and I like to be surrounded by things that made me happy at one time.

I know, I sound so…obscenely sentimental.  Ick.  I have to get over it.  And fast.

Why?

As soon as I leave for Australia I’ll be technically homeless.

How is that for The New Twenty?!  I wonder how I would have reacted at age 20 if my age 30 self traveled back in time and told me how much my life would be in flux/disarray.  I was a slightly arrogant age 20 year-old and I certainly had some pretty big ideas about how my life in the fab lane would look…

“Surprise!  You’re NOT going to be a published novelist and award-winning screenwriter.  You’re NOT going to have houses in Manhattan, Malibu, & London.  And hahahahaha.  You’re definitely NOT going to be madly in love with an amazing man who is your ultimate life partner and soul mate.  But you’ll develop quite the palette for slightly dirty martinis with extra olives (yes, I know you think you hate olives, but you’ll evolve).  And ok, you won’t be published or rich, but the fact that your life is in such utter gutter-ville you’ll be able to complain about it all the time in a blog.  Oh, what’s a blog?  It’s a widespread writing/publishing platform on the internet.  How much do you get paid for that?  Psssssssh.  NOTHING.  And you’ll be $100,000 in student loan debt.  Sounds fun, eh?  Ciao, see you in 10!”

Anyway, I did this whole homeless thing to myself because not only can I not afford to keep my apartment while I’m away (I’ve got enough bills I can’t get rid of already), but I don’t love my apartment enough to go through the hassle of trying to sublet it.  It’s already annoying enough to try and get someone to move in one month before my lease is up.  Plus I have no idea what the New Year has in store for little, old me…

As we all know this year’s economy has been total shit.  Ever since my first job as a grocery store clerk at age 15 I have landed pretty much every job that I applied for…until this year.  Maybe I was just really lucky before this black hole of national unemployment, but I like to think that I was a good job candidate who was prepared for and knew what she wanted.  Last fall when the contract for my second part-time job (writing for new media) suddenly ended (they couldn’t afford to renew our team), I desperately sent out resumes to any not-completely-soul-crushing full-time job possible.  After all, I was about to turn 30 and didn’t want to be working 60-hour weeks for $10/hour as a PA (Production Assistant…a.k.a. the set bitch, for those of you non-film/TV industry people), yet I couldn’t afford to only work part-time.

But all those decent-ish jobs, as well as jobs I was way overqualified for, were like shooting stars or miracles.  I believed they existed; yet they were impossible to get hold of.  There are too many smart, talented people in the same sinking lifeboat as me.  I could blog on and on about how many friends and family were laid off (and still are), but I have a feeling you all know what I’m talking about.

For baby screenwriters out of film school it was—and still is—the pits.  Not only are shows drastically cutting back the number of entry-level positions on writing staffs (and those few gigs you have to know an important someone and/or have representation to try and land them), but the film spec market is dying.

I was a writer before I was a screenwriter and so did a bit of soul searching.  Is it film/TV that makes me happy or it writing that makes me happy?  Do I have to work in “the biz”?  Or could I branch out to other forms of creative writing expression?

I settled on the latter…but the story doesn’t suddenly turn up roses, as journalism isn’t much better these days.  While chatting with a local coffee barrista who is applying for documentary/cultural film fellowships, I mentioned I may apply for my Ph.D. next fall in creative writing or journalism.  She has a Masters in journalism and lamented how hard it is right now in those programs because so many journalists are out of work that they’re competing for the spots in the top schools.  If you can’t do, teach, right?  So basically…it’s not easy being a writer these days…

Still, if you’re only looking for work in one city you’re limiting yourself, right?  Kind of like if you live in Santa Monica and only date guys who live on the Westside you’re limiting yourself.  After all there are a lot more writing opportunities in New York, and even San Francisco has some exciting possibilities with Silicon Valley, Pixar Studios, and the surrounding universities.

So while I want to stay in LA I am open to the idea of moving if a great job (with medical benefits, thankyouverymuch) presents itself elsewhere.  That means I don’t want the restrains of another lease or a ton of stuff to lug around should that happen.

Which brings me to some tough choices.

A couple of dear friends graciously offered to either let me store some boxes in their garages and/or crash on their couch for a few days.  This doesn’t mean I can keep every knick-knack, nor overstay my welcome.

SO.

What do I do about my beloved, beaten brown cowboy boots?

These puppies have been with me since before graduate school.  I wore them every day I could get away with it, even way after the cowboy boot fad wore waaaaaay off.  If you’ve never owned cowboy boots you can’t appreciate how truly comfortable they are.  They gradually form to your feet, so imagine Birkenstock insoles, but in costume-esque shoe form.  And I still think they look adorable with a mini jean skirt, no matter how ratty the heels and edges.  But they’ve reached the point of no return (meaning no matter how much I pay a shoe cobbler to fix them he can only do so much).  So.  Do I trash them?  Can I?  I mean, sure, they’re too shabby to wear to dinner, but running errands?  Are they worth the space they’ll take up in my extremely limited storage space?

Have you ever seen a homeless person carrying around ratty, old cowboy boots?

I can’t decide now.  Just thinking about it makes me…I don’t know…I mean if this isn’t a happy foot I don’t know what is…

Happy Halloween weekend, everyone!

Run, Tricia, Run! October 27, 2009

30 Years + 50 Days

***

I am not a runner.  But I run…

I run to catch connecting flights, to get to work on time when LA traffic exercises its demons, and to burn calories, usually on a treadmill, with an occasional beach or sidewalk run when I’m away from my glorious, air-conditioned gym.  I sweat like a sumo wrestler, breathe the wrong way, and count the minutes and seconds until I finish whatever futile running goal I set for myself.  This is always about 4 miles (or less).   This doesn’t mean my workout ends at 36 or so minutes…I just have to switch to some other form of cardio before I exercise MY demons.  I hit the running wall like a Mini Cooper hits a semi-truck.  Like I said…I’m not a runner…

This past May a couple of my friends ran the LA Marathon.  It was totally inspiring and at their finish line I brazenly considered training for it for next year.  But after downing greasy cheese fries amongst the crowd chaos and the excited afterglow wore off…I sighed (in relief) and admitted…

My happy place just does not exist in running.  I never get to the “natural high” running enthusiasts are always talking about.  Give me a dance class and I can go, go, go with a real smile on my face.  Make me run ten laps in gym class and I’m like an angry, homicidal gerbil on a wheel.  I feel great after I finish the stupid run.  But during?  Yikes.  And if I don’t have heart-thumpin’ music?  Fuggettaboutit.

Yet…all of this didn’t stop me from running a 10K this past Sunday morning.  At 7:30 a.m.  Meaning I had to get up at 5:30 a.m. and be there by 6:30-ish, so it was still completely black out when I slept-walked out my front door.  I know.  That just isn’t right.

But when a friend asked if I wanted to run since his company was one of the race’s sponsors…and that it was the LA Cancer Challenge…how could I say no?  As I mentioned before my father is a cancer survivor.  Sure the LA C.C. was to raise money for pancreatic cancer research and my dad had lymphoma, but cancer is cancer and any stride towards a cure is a good thing for all.  Plus I kind of wanted to challenge myself.  See if my “I suck at distance running and should never entertain the idea of a marathon” thoughts were true.  I mean, I survived a 5K a few years ago—The Nike Run Hit Wonder in downtown LA.  Every mile mark they literally built mini stages where bands played their one popular song (fun for us, depressing and annoying for the bands—but a paycheck nonetheless).  It ended with a full concert with Joan Jett of “I Love Rock and Roll” fame and never-ending bagels and bananas.  And I love me a good bagel!

But like I said…less than 4 miles and I’m cool.  It’s around the 4-mile mark that things start to get ugly.  But this is one benefit to The New Twenty.  Sometimes you’re willing to try things you wouldn’t have during your Old Twenty days—for better or worse.  A 10K never would’ve made my “freshman 15” radar.  I was too busy doing things that were actually, truly fun.

The daily forecast was 74 degrees and partly sunny and the early morning hours were crisp and damp in that perfect mild fall morning way.  There was free beef on a stick (huh?) and coffee (yessssss!!!) before race time.  Bonus points for the “bag your stuff in a trash bag with your race number on it” system so you don’t have to carry any personal belongings.  Although it would’ve been hilarious to try and run 6.2 miles with my purse and USC sweatshirt in tow.

I found my way to the 9-10 minute mile line-up.  My marathon man friend headed toward the 7-8 minute group.  Show off. 

While I’m not a runner I sure looked the part in my Saucony sneaks, Lucy sport capri pants, sports bra, tank, headband, iPod, and wireless heart monitor (to track my calories burned, time, etc.).  I picked an old “workout” playlist and went to town.  Or huffed, puffed, and silently swore to town, anyway…

Did I mention I developed a little knee issue when I obsessively ran inclines on the treadmill a few months back?  That is aging my friends.  I used to dance ballet for hours in pointe shoes, toes bleeding, and get up the next day and do it again—no problemo.  Now?  A few treadmill sprints and I had to cease and desist incline running altogether.  Yeah.  SO not The New Twenty here.  And…of course it turns out this course was at least 60% uphill.  My heart rate skyrocketed within the first twenty seconds and pretty much stayed there the whole time.  I could see the headlines already:

“30 Year-Old Woman Dies of Heart Attack at .05 Mile Mark of 10K.”

(Implied: So dreadfully sad/pathetic.  Clearly this woman is a moron.  Completely delusional when it comes to her health and physical condition.  And who runs 10K’s when you’re not a runner?!)

But my heart and left knee somehow plowed along.  I found myself playing little mind games to keep on trucking, like:

- For the next minute pretend like you’re running from a mugger.  A desk job.  Love.  Just kidding.  Kind of….

- If you survive the next mile you can go to The Counter for dinner and indulge in whatever gourmet burger smothered in herbed goat cheese your heart desires.  And get a milkshake.  With real ice cream.  You know you want it…yes you do…

- If you dare sit down or walk you must do 40 push-ups and write 10 pages every day for the next week.  And give $5 to every single homeless person you pass (a lot in LA)…

Oh, it went on…but I’ll spare you…

I made extra effort to smile at the wide array of Veteran spectators (the LA Cancer Challenge is on the VA campus in Westwood near UCLA) because they always smiled back, giving me a little boost.  I didn’t always smile at the ridiculous amount of photographers snapping away at every mile mark.  That would be false advertising.  The run was like going to war with myself…and even though that technically means I have to win…I didn’t know if I’d live to celebrate.

Ok, I’m being melodramatic.  But seriously, those last two miles were rough.  And I still hold a grudge against that water station planning committee.  They had water at almost every mile mark except the 3 mile point?!  Not half way?  Meaning no water between miles 2-4?  Really??

But I did it.  I ran the whole time (except for quick gulps of begrudged water).  It was a little sad to not have anyone at the finish line to cheer me across, but I got over it.  Strangers pretended to care.  My time was 57:56, meaning I averaged a 9.28-minute mile.  I was happy with that, again considering most of the track was uphill.  The best part was looking like a completely disgusting no make-up sweaty mess in front of Jim.  And I didn’t give a shit.  Or ok, I did a little, but what can you do?  We ran a 10K for crying out loud!  At The New Twenty!

The repercussions?

My feet throbbed on Sunday.  Shin and calf pain on Monday.  By today I’m almost totally back to normal.  This morning’s weight training circuit followed by a hardcore stretch routine helped.  I might have scared some of my fellow gym rats with my crazy facial expressions of PAIN as I rolled out my calf muscles with the black foam roller.  It never felt so fucking horrible/good.  Like a cheap Chinese massage on the Venice boardwalk.

So I’m not a runner.  And I doubt I’ll ever be a runner.  But I still run.  Because I can and because it’s a challenge.  A metaphor for life so to speak.  But if you think I was going to say after all this that I am going to run a marathon, you’re crazy.  No f-ing way.  But.  Hmm…maybe a half marathon…

Too Old to Grind. And I’m Not Talking Coffee. October 25, 2009

30 Days + 48 Days

***

I meant to post this yesterday, but I was having internet issues (among other things).  So here goes…

A close friend of mine recently stopped drinking.  Completely.  For very good reasons that I would never get into on this blog.  To me, the new, sober version of my friend was not that big of a deal since our relationship doesn’t revolve around a bar menu.  We also go shopping, watch movies, grab coffee or dinner, hit the beach, etc.  However, she did mention that it was very hard to hang out with certain friends anymore for she realized their entire relationship revolved around blueberry vodka sodas and cigarettes with a splash of gossip thrown in for good measure.  Oh, she also stopped smoking.  I mean, give up one vice, why not go for gold?

This got me thinking since, as I’ve mentioned lately, my social drinking habits have recently given me pause.  I thought about my various groups of friends.  Surely we could have a conversation and/or meaningful interaction without a social elixir on tap.  Right?  Right??

Well after my hangover last weekend and pledge of “no more shots” (except bachelorette parties) I decided to detox until Halloween.  I think I can, I think I can…

Friday night I planned to stay in.  I have so much to do in regards to my great Australian adventure, from like…MOVING/selling most of my crap(!), to tiny annoying things like arranging with all my bill companies to pre-pay while I’m away.  Not to mention all the writing and applying to jobs I need to do.  Plus I’m running a 10K this Sunday to raise money for pancreatic cancer research (my dad is a lymphoma survivor), so I figure if there is a time to put the social life on hold and focus on more important things—this was it!

And it was great.  All week I was productive member of society.  After a full Friday afternoon at the library I enjoyed an early, impromptu Mediterranean feast at a divey restaurant across the street.  This place flies in their baklava from Syria and if you order it for dessert you get to try five kinds of pistachio heaven.  I ate enough to feed the entire country of Turkey…and I drank water with lemon.  After that I almost passed out in a food coma on my couch by 10 p.m.…until…my phone rang…

It was Jim.  Some friends were getting together and then going dancing.

Me: “I don’t know, I’ve been partying too much lately so I’m kinda laying low.”

Jim: “I probably have something to do with that, huh?”

Me: “Well, you don’t control my behavior, but, you know, we have fun, then you call shots, and then I call shots, and it becomes a big, old slippery slope of debauchery.”

Jim: (laughing) “Indeed.”

But I went anyway.  I know, I know.  But as the DD.  It was a little social experiment to test if my conclusions from the weekend prior were indeed true or just wishful thinking.  Was I really over him?  Did I really believe were too different?  Could we still hang when I was sober…and he was not?

Well, if you’ve never been the sober person amongst drunk friends it’s tolerable and even funny for a minute…but loses its charm about as fast as a third grade Shakespeare production.

I found myself more of an observer than a participant.  A girl I met out dancing a few weeks prior who seemed nice and fun was now driving me crazy.  Turns out she’s more immature than your worst high school Queen Bee.  Conversation at Jim’s was scattered.  Someone would ask a question and as the person tried to answer another (drinking) person would interrupt and change the subject.  No one seemed to care…except me.  And while there were two medical residents in the room there wasn’t just talk of the “g-spot”…there were hand-drawn diagrams.  Yeah…

And when we got to the bar Jim’s friend from out of town, who was super nice, cool guy, kept trying to grind with me.  He is a fantastic dancer…but I don’t like grinding even when I’ve had a few.  I think I’m too old for it (though quite possibly I’ve just turned into a dancing prude).  The Old Twenty days I had no problem getting jiggy on the dance floor with my guy friends or love interests.  But my New Twenty days consist of dancing with myself, coyly waving my arms in front of my as if they’re subtextual defense shields.  And regardless of my general New Twenty grinding aversion…one thing I know for sure is I was way too sober to just go with it.  Awwwwwkward…

When the dancing got really out of control I sat down for a bit.  I started to feel as if I was making everyone else uncomfortable.  Possible…though unlikely since they rest of the gang seemed to be gyrating in another solar system.  At one point I think they forgot I was there.  Which was kind of a good thing.

And with Jim…on the way out he joked, “Tricia’s sober.  I can’t even talk to Tricia right now.”  Every joke is a half-joke.  And he was right.  It was weird.  Everything that night felt different between us…and I don’t think it was just the fact that I could walk a straight line…eyes closed and reciting the alphabet backwards.  I don’t think we’ll be hanging out as much in the future.  They all went back to Jim’s apartment for after-party detox.  I went home.

The next morning I woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.  I got up and went to a café to write before bhangra dancing class (more on that in a near future blog) and even squeezed in some much-needed errands.  After my shower I opened my favorite podcast channel, “How Stuff Works: Stuff You Should Know.”  There near the top was a podcast I hadn’t listened to yet called, “What is a hangover, really?”  Too perfect.  Learning was never so fun…and binge drinking will never quite be the same…

No More Shots Club October 21, 2009

30 Years + 44 Days

***

So much has been happening—the good, the bad, and the ugly, that it’s hard to focus long enough to pick the right soy milk at Trader Joe’s, let alone plan for a month abroad or write a blog that makes sense, is entertaining, etc.  I’m going to try, but please forgive me if I seem a bit…scattered.  Less than a month until my Australian adventure so you can imagine…

But first, for those of you who have read my blog before today, my cousin seems to be doing pretty well, despite the fact that the neurosurgeons weren’t able to remove her old VT shunt (yet).  The virus did more damage than they thought, causing the tubes to become brittle and irremovable.  So on to plan B, which means the strongest drug offensive possible, hopefully followed by an earlier surgery where they’ll finally be able to chuck the old shunt and put in a shiny, new one.  The cous is keeping it real, yet with a fab “life is crazy”/humorous twist as she catches up on TV and writes silly/thankful Facebook messages from her hospital bed.  I told you.  She’s amazing.

As for me?  I’m doing ok.  Remember.  Perspective, people.

And speaking of a little perspective…if there is one thing I’ve learned since turning The New Twenty it’s that all the immature behaviors you used to ignore or get away with suddenly seem totally pathetic.  And not just your own immature tendencies, but those of others as well.  You hear yourself saying things like, “I can’t do this anymore…I mean I’m 30!” or “He/She is 30 for crying out loud!  He/She is ridiculous!!!”

Name one of those habits?  Easy.  How about doing shots.  Of alcohol.  At a club/bar/party/whathaveyou.  Think lemon drops, SoCo and lime, tequila, name your poison.  Now this isn’t something I did much past the age of about 23, yet I’ve found in the last year or so that my shot-taking has drastically increased.  As in AFTER graduate school.  This is partially due to the company I’m keeping (more on that in a moment) and partially due to “my life is a cosmic joke right now, so why not, I mean I don’t even work until 2 p.m.” mentality.  But that’s just the thing.  If I keep acting that way…then nothing is going to change…

It’s not cute to wake up all dehydrated and achy when you’re 30 and your New Twenty friends don’t accept you bailing on brunch thanks to a “wild night out” near as much as your Old Twenty friends did.  And don’t even get me started on how many things I didn’t accomplish on Sunday thanks to hugging my shitty used couch all day.  A couple hours of fuzzy bliss is not worth it.  Not anymore.

I had my second (or is it third?) hangover in October this past Sunday and technically it may have extended into Monday.  After the fog of nausea wore off I realized who my partner in “shots” crime is: The Guy.  “Jim.”  Yep, the guy friend I liked/like/I don’t know, I think I’m finally kinda getting over-guy.  He’s a shots enabler…when he calls, “Shots!” you just do it.  No questions.  Jim even got my mother to do a shot when she visited and the most my mom drinks is a glass of wine every month or so!

AND…THEN IT HIT ME.  Jim and I are not meant to be.  While I love his energy and he has some great qualities like generosity, humor, super intelligence, etc., hanging out with him has turned me into a party-party 23 year-old.  And I do NOT want to be 23 year-old Trish again.  I am THE NEW TWENTY.  And don’t get me wrong…there is a time and place for shots even at my age—such as a bachelor or bachelorette party.  But not your average Friday and Saturday night in New Twenty-ville.  Or at least my imaginary -ville.

I want to spend more time doing the things I used to love doing, like go to indie films, art openings, and hikes.  You can’t hike Topanga or Griffith if you wake up still three sheets to the wind.  And come to think of it I’m pretty sure Jim doesn’t do any of those things.  He works hard, parties hard.  I suppose that’s cool if that’s your thing…but I haven’t even been working very hard (though that is changing), so I don’t have that excuse.

Anyway, point is…I’m breaking the Jim addiction.  And in a weird way he helped me do so.  Let’s thank him.  Thank you, Jim.  Now Trish can talk about other things/boys and become a productive member of weekend society again.