It’s really bedtime but I don’t want to go to bed because then I’ll fall asleep and have to get up and go back to work again. My end-of-last-week optimism about how I was changing my focus and would write all the brilliant things at work has kind of diminished (in the face of yet another day with really sad news and stuff that I’m not going to wank on about here) and with the realisation that perhaps this isn’t really what I want to do for a living, but more importantly there is no actual job here that I’d rather do. Somewhat of a Catch-22 n’est-pas?
I’m sure I’m not the only person in the world who has ever thought this, but after a chat with a colleague, who kinda feels the same, I’ve realised maybe it is a tad harder for people whose jobs also go a long way to making up who they are in real life. Maybe if you were a work-to-live person rather than a live-to-work, you can more easily conquer the daily grind or the disappointment. Sure, you wouldn’t have the highs, but would you still have the desperately crushing lows?
I think the answer for me is that nothing, nothing at all would make any difference. As a person I probably lack the drive, the commitment and the self-discipline, let alone the intellect to actually be what I’d like to be. But accepting I’m not nearly as good as I would like to be a) reinforces all the crap things I think about myself and b) makes me annoyed.
There’s no answer, there’s no solution, apart from taking myself into a wee small room and having a fucking word with myself. (This comes courtesy of Lisa’s Dad) Which I am going to do Right Now.
And as part of that process I’m going to have a think about all the things I do moderately well. As it stands I like books (and have read heaps, including Ulysees: TWICE and I understood it) and am good at grammar and can talk the hind leg off a donkey whilst drunk. I can remember swathes of poetry, and am profficient at learning foreign languages and an expert at cooking haloumi.
I can sing in tune and often do so acapella at weddings (whether requested to do so or not). I can walk in high heels (mostly), am good at settling disputes between others and can say “my hovercraft is full of eels” in Gaelic.
I can speed-read, I’m good at impersonating most accents (Irish and Welsh especially), I can hold drink better than most of my friends, I can sew and occasinally turn my hand to various forms of crafty handiwork (socktoys). I’m mostly good at seeing projects through to the bitter end through sheer bloodymindedness, I’m good at boring repetitive tasks (for short periods of time). I like animals, small children don’t seem to distrust me and I love the smell of matches.
I make excellent cocktails, good investment decisions (thanks Dad) and when I remember I’m good at filing. I make the best chicken casserole known to man (thanks Mum and also, unless you’re a vego, but I make a mean one of those too).
I’m running out of stuff now….Ok. I’m a good editor of things, I’m a good shoulder to cry on (when I’m not crying on someone else’s..read Kato), I put things in safe places and I usually find them again, I don’t fold the corners of books, I have great taste in bedlinen and I have a healthy distrust of “modern medicine”.
I don’t take unnessessary flu jabs, I believe valium is the answer to most things and I still crave to have a giant doll’s house with all miniature things in it. In between being a massive twat, I think I’m reasonably easy to get along with. I know how to forgive.
ALthough you might be hard pressed to find a man who has been in a relationship with me and still has good things to say (Terry? Where are you? Have you figured out how to use the internet yet? Help a sista out, won’t you?) I still think maybe I’ve got something to give to someone. Maybe my eggs if they pay me.
I said Maybe. OK. I feel a tad better now. Sure, none (or even all) of those things are going to set the world on fire, but maybe I’ll light a candle instead. Because right now, that’s enough.