... the end of awkward moments ...

What would life be like without the multitude of awkward moments that make up my day?

No more moments of nervous fidgeting --
                        pulling at shirt sleeves, hands in pockets, rocking on heels,
                        pulling at shirt sleeves, tuck hair behind ears,
                                               hands in back pockets, rocking on heels, cross arms ...

No more moments of stumbling over, tripping over, stopping short of words.
No more losing words.
No more being halfway through a sentence and realizing the other person looks like they've just found a pebble in their lentils.

Without a vice, I'm a bit lost on the social interaction front.

As a smoker, the entrance was always well lit --

need a light? got a light? can I bum one?  need one? let's go have one!

Imagine standing in a crowded bar and asking a potential friend:

                  "Want to step outside for 5 to 6 minutes and talk?"

Unless you're trying to jump someone's tonsils it's not exactly an ideal socializing plan.

But hey, here's to my health!  And thank goodness for it!

And the truth is awkward moments are never going to end.
Everybody's different (yada yada) our thoughts are not  the same (of course) -- if only communication could go telepathic!

So I guess what I really need is an end to the agonizing moments afterwards spent analyzing every minute detail of each awkward moment throughout each day.

No more wondering: did I say the wrong thing?  did I say too much?  not enough? maybe I shouldn't have said anything at all?

What a life it could be!

A life without anxiety?

What a life it would be!

... imperfection ...

I had followed the mapquest directions exactly.  Made every turn, marked every street name.  I was here.

Supposedly.

I parked the car and walked up to the cobalt blue door.  No sign.  No welcome mat.  I tried the knob.            

Locked.

So I knocked.  A round man with glasses peeked his dark head out.
       "Is this an art school?"  He nodded and opened the door wide enough for me to squeeze in.              
       "I'm here for an interview?"  He pointed down the hallway to my right.
I later found out, as I embarked on my ten minute tour of the campus, that mapquest had steered me wrong again.  The front entrance was on the other side of the building, along with the appropriate signage.
              I loved it.  The gray cement walls and drafting tables flecked with paint.  The modest skylights and basement studios.  The faint smell of turpentine, linseed oil and must.  Dented mismatched metal chairs and an easel held together with masking tape.  A worn in feeling to settle into.

Sign me up, I wanted to say.  I'm in.

I met with a gray haired professor who had a glint in his eye and an emphatic way about him.  He complimented my portfolio and my personality.

"When you're accepted... and I said, when, because we are going to accept you        

whether or not you accept us..."

I was in shock.  Apparently the feeling was mutual.  The school loved me at first sight too.
Taking the advice of my family and friends, I decided to play the field a little longer.  See what else was out there before settling down.
              So the following week, I drove out to Old Lyme.  The entrance was clearly marked, the lawns tidy and trim, each brick on the building seemed to sparkle.  We toured the pristine campus.  Every studio had high vaulted ceilings and plenty of natural light.  Each chair and easel was in mint condition and the ventilation system was working all day to keep the air clean.  And the view.  A view many famous impressionists have painted.  A pond, tall trees, long grass.... perfection.
              The admissions lady was very polite.  She asked me about my work and told me the next steps to take.  I thanked her for her time.
              As I drove away, I thought, what a nice school.  Something to take home to mom and dad.
But no.
       Not for me.
                    My perfect fit had a little more imperfection.

... unemployment ...

Perfectly permed hair, pimple free olive skin, a Barbie doll body and not a speck of lint on her black pencil skirt, she taps her pen on the clipboard in her lap.   Looks me up and down.  Scribbles something on my resume.  Asks:
                      
                "Where do you see yourself professionally in five years?"

I squirm.  Begin to babble semi-coherent English -- something art related, maybe an art teacher, maybe an art therapist -- who knows, maybe I'll try my hand at advertising?  I cross my cheap vinyl boots and unfortunately become acutely aware of all the gray lint my sweater jacket is leaving on my once black dress.

Ten minutes later, as I walk out of American Apparel, I realize... I'm walking out of American Apparel.

Albeit, I was really hoping this interview would lead to an easy part-time job to see me through my next semester of art school, and I am certainly not above retail, but really?  Is there any need to feel like a lesser person because I'm not quite American Apparel material?

With many people taking being downsized as an opportunity to go back to school, you could say I took the opposite approach; I sought out my own unemployment.

That's right.  You heard me.

Even in this economy ... (oh whoa is me -- the economy!) ... I decided to do this.  I decided to leave my good job with good benefits to pursue a path that will yield potential (almost certain) poverty.
                              
                                  But hey, it's about happiness... right?

Thankfully, my boss asked me to help out with one teacher's pregnancy leave until mid-December, so until then, I am officially employed.   And with the end date fast approaching, I have a feeling I'll be okay.  Parents always need babysitters and teachers always need the occasional substitute.

As I walk away from the store that didn't want me, I look back to rethink its sleek and simple facade.  Who wants to be a part of that skinny girl's cool click anyway?  The store next door, however, catches my eye as its windows display multitudes of fun Fall hipster fashion -- perhaps Urban Outfitters would be a better fit...

                  ... and the job search in this economy continues ....

... a hot toddy ...

... H1N1 ...

Sticky, slimy, green and running from the nose of this surprisingly still adorable three year old.  He looks confused.  Lifts the tips of his fingers to his lip and pulls out strings of gooey mucous. Like any good early childhood educator, I run for the millionth tissue to wipe his poor chapped nose and then (thanks to my thoughtful coworker), I reach for a quick squirt of Purell.  

Ah.   Thank goodness for disinfectants.

The potential health hazards from working with children are abundant.  In my short 4 years (and counting), I have certainly run through the gambit.  Of course there's always the common (and not-so-common) cold, the fever, the stomach bug, the runs, and my personal favorite, pink eye.  There was strep (which was a doozy) and then the most recent lice fiasco.  To live without ever having to plastic bag all of your personal belongings, chemically treat your infested hair, douse it all in olive oil, wrap it up in a shower cap and comb through it strand by strand daily -- to live without these experiences would have been too easy.  

Thankfully now lice free, I acquired a post nasal drip and healthy cough, which seems to be turning into a sinus infection.  But, good news.  Thanks to my high risk working environment, my boss paid for my seasonal flu vaccine on Tuesday and my H1N1 nasal spray vaccine this evening -- so here's hoping for the best!  Perhaps I'll end this year without ever having found the flu.

After wiping my poor student's nose, he beams up at me.  "Thank you, Leeez!" he says before running off to bake some more cakes in the sandbox.  I look around and realize there a few other noses that need wiping, perhaps a diaper that needs changing.  But I have to laugh as one boy organizes a trip to Africa ("Let me just call and see if they're open!") and one girl composes a song with a flute and microphone made out of Legos ("I like to go go go, woo hoo hoo") -- the moments are endless.  

And I realize, I love working with children.  So much that I don't even mind wiping the occasional nose.

... a plan ...

You know the type.  The type with a plan.

The 5 year plan.  The 10 year plan.  The plan-to-make-a-plan plan.  

The engagement, wedding, family plan.   The college, double major, honors, med school, law school, MBA, high paying job plan.

The type whose clothes are always pressed, whose hair is always flawless, whose smile never crooked.

The type who has it all figured out.

The type who, if you're like me, you fell out of touch with until you joined facebook and found yourself perusing the pictures of afore mentioned perfect planners.  

Thanks again technology!  I am the ultimate loser. 

Not only are you sitting at home on a Friday night flipping through facebook photos TO BEGIN WITH, but you now realize that many of your fellow high school graduates are beautiful people married to other beautiful people planning beautiful plans for beautiful futures.

So... what's your plan?

I am a 26 year old American female.

Still young.  Still time.  

Or so everyone says.

But it doesn't feel like that.

It feels like NOW is the time.  The time to find the right career path, life path, family path and start jogging towards the finish line.    To quote Elvis, (rather, to quote Aaron Schroeder and Wally Gold) "It's Now or Never!"  

And so... what are you going to do about it?

Step One:  Suck it up.   Figure it out.  Put on your big girl panties and quit your whining.  Ask yourself: 

What is it that makes you happy?