envy Pronunciation: 'en-vE Function: noun Inflected Form(s): plural envies One of the 7 Deadly Sins, envy is the painful or resentful awareness of an advantage enjoyed by another joined with a desire to possess the same advantage for others' traits, status, abilities, or situation.
I'm a sinner. I envy writers who are able to open a vein at will, spilling their words on to the page, weaving their words together magically, sharing their stories unabashedly and zealously drawing in their readers. I struggle with each post. Worse, I have always thought that I would enjoy a career as a writer. Yes, a published writer. Growing up, I was a prolific writer of short stories, poems and novels of suspense, horror or romance (no, not all at once!). My
fans classmates heralded each work as "thrilling", "spell-binding" and "awesome" and predicted that I would be a very successful (and published) writer in the future. (I loved it that my peers were so supportive… My 25th high school class reunion is coming up this summer and I don't plan on attending because in the intervening years I have done nothing with my writing – let alone my life. No need to admit my failures in public!) Somewhere along the way, I lost hold of that dream. And lately, it's become one of my greatest disappointments. I've always experienced a love/hate relationship with words. I love the way they float around in my head – heavy or light, rounded or sharp, hard or soft. Sometimes, they rattle around like ghosts from my past, remembered faces, carrying with them a sense of memory, of love, of loss. When they are present, I love and cherish them. Lately, the words seem to be hidden behind a sheet of gray gauze, the light filtered and semi-translucent. The words are faded, distant, foreign. They come haltingly. If they come at all. Lately, the words have abandoned me. The chatter in my head is so loud that the words are disjointed, often nonsensical, or absent altogether. It's bad enough that I struggle to "write", but now I find myself struggling to string together words in sentences that barely rival a second grader. It seems as though English has become a second language – and one I've yet to master. My veins are open wide, but nothing is pouring out. Maybe it's time to repent.
I got a call yesterday at work from a headhunter (a.k.a., a recruiter). A co-worker gave him my name and number. The recruiter said that he’s interested in meeting with me to discuss the possibility of placing me in a position with another company. I’m planning on meeting with him for coffee before work after month-end close next week. He asked me to forward a copy of my resume to him over the next few days. He seems like a nice guy – and he worked with a good friend (and former colleague) in placing her at her last company, so he has a proven track record.
This is great news. Somebody’s interested in helping me to break out of the hell I’ve been trapped in for over a decade.
And, yet, I’m scared to death of the possibility of change.
I don’t know why.
Continue reading Afraid of the Headhunters…
Last evening, I went to a bar for the first time in well over a year. It was a celebration of the retirement of my co-worker, Karen. This woman is a hoot – she’s 62 and is now going to embark on a new career – that of an anti-war protestor! While I would probably never participate in an organized protest, I respect my former colleague for being passionate enough to take a stance.
I seldom drink, my tolerance to alcohol much lower than it was in my college days. (Somehow, over time, my hollow legs have become solid!) I typically find myself feeling drunk after consuming just a few sips of a drink. Friday night, in the span of just a few hours, I had swilled 3 gin and tonics. And they were good.
Surprisingly, I awoke this morning feeling fine. Actually, too fine. Most Saturdays I awake feeling like I’ve been hit by a speeding bus. I blame work. The stress starts Monday morning and builds to a shrill crescendo by Friday afternoon. Rinse. Repeat.
But today, I feel good. Maybe it’s because I enjoyed the company of the folks at the bar last evening. The group consisted of my immediate colleagues, sans the ones who cause the stress and a few of the pantywipes who insisted that they had to go home to their wives/husbands and children. These were MY people… All of us are passionate about our work (even though it will never herald a cure for cancer or AIDS or even the national debt), care about the welfare of eachother (and fear for the day management decides to let one of us go in the name of ‘cost savings’ which we all KNOW means BONUS at year-end for them) and truly worry about the future of the company that we’ve all stood by through thick and thin. It was a great vent-fest. And as the saying goes, what comes out at the bar, stays at the bar!
So they’ll be no gossip.
Continue reading When the smoke gets in my eyes…