When my life gets busy, the same things fall by the waist side. I am dependable about handling obligations, but they usually upstage the activities that nurture my soul. During chaos, my life is seldom an example of balance, and mostly exemplifies the burden of everyday responsibilities. Hence the two unfinished drawings in the studio, the box of unread books, the un-utilized roll of roofing felt (don’t get too excited, it is my new drawing surface of choice), the printing press that needs T.L.C., the hiking paths I need to explore, all the nesting activities required to settle into a new house, the gallery I absolutely MUST visit, and the unfinished crossword puzzles.

When you factor in how much progress is disrupted simply by having the Mister at home, it leaves a tired Chica (who often refers to herself in third person when she gets irritable).

The first thing I neglect is any physical exercise routine I’m attempting to commit to (and I use commit in the looses interpretation of the word). It doesn’t matter if it’s walking, abs, or stretching. One neglected day equals reneging on the whole program. One tiny little missed opportunity…and it all goes to Hell in a hand basket. It usually takes months to get started again. It’s definitely a routine that is good for me, if one I deplore, so it is easy to understand why I fall off the wagon with this one.

Reading takes one for the team. I read a few minutes before bed every almost every night, but finding extra time during the day can be a chore. It takes a long time to finish a book when you find yourself rationed to twenty minutes a day or less. In the past I have chosen to spend ten hours traveling by plane only to have twenty-four hours at the destination because I knew I could justify sending the time time to read or sketch.

Art tis the guiltiest of pleasures. It shouldn’t be. I should make it a priority along with clean laundry. Generally, I don’t give a shit about how society views things…but it seems to have found a weakness in my facade regarding this subject. There is a notion, probably left over from elementary school, that art is fun; therefor if you are making art you are having fun, and if you are having fun then it can’t possibly be work. During the days of FICA and fifty hour weeks it was work. There was nothing fun about it. Nothing beats creativity into will-less submission like a joyless project promoting shameless consumerism.

Unchained from the pressure of forced success, it is still work. Just not the soul suffocating kind. Now it seems to be more encompassing than ever. Art is no longer confined to the parameters of expensive paper, stretched canvass, or a yearly Christmas card. It seems to transcends the project and execution, and seeps into my everyday problem solving. I’m not thinking on the page or in the sketchbook; I’m evaluating wide open spaces, and mentally drafting solutions in hopes of making spaces more usable and accessible. I would rather be working on paper, or roofing felt, but spacial needs dictate other priorities for now. When free time presents itself, I will be ready and willing. Until then, I will try applying what I know on paper to what I need in real life.

My plane stopped at the gate. Passengers were standing up to retrieve their belongs. I remained seated in the back of the plane, waiting for the others to disembark, before exiting. A man walked over and sat across the aisle, and leaned towards me.

“I’m Clay.”

“Claaaay,” I repeat and my voice trails off

“We went to college together. I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name…But it has been ten years.”

I remembered him the moment he introduced himself. We exchanged pleasantries. He’s working as a professional songwriter. One of his tracks was nominated for a Grammy a few years ago. He was an exceptional painter when we were in college. It was evident the painter was dueling with the musician. I always wondered which talent would prevail.

Finally, he asked the inevitable, “What are you doing now?”

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Two years have passed since I left my job, and I am still clueless about what I am doing. Beneath it all, I feel a pang of guilt admitting I do not work. For eight years, I gave my all. I researched new technology, and accepted trial by fire projects with tight deadlines. I thought the work I was contributing really mattered, but in the end, it only mattered to me.

The harder I worked, the less information I received from coworkers. The longer the hours, the higher the expectations. Towards the end, I did other’s jobs in addition to my own. When I asked my supervisor what kind of future I could expect, he gave me a tiny raise, but no answer. My attitude became atrocious; can do quickly evolved into fuck you.

Two days before I quit, I totally lost my shit. I have a temper, but it usually doesn’t show until I’ve had my fill of B.S. After I lose it once, I loose it more frequently before I beat my temper into submission, where it remains for months. I don’t like to get that angry it indicates a lack of self-control.

Ironically, when I lost it wasn’t at my job. The straw was a repair bill for my vehicle. I reviewed the receipt, at home. The more I studied it, the angrier I got. Rather than take the reasonable course of action and go to the repair shop to chew the manager a new asshole, I walked to Big Bertha and gave her a proper ass whipping. I neglected to wrap my hands. When I finished, I emerged with seven bloody knuckles.

I returned to work the following day with extra long sleeves. I had been holding on to my sanity by my fingernails for months. I hid a letter of resignation under my keyboard earlier in case of emergency. I had removed most of my personal effects from my office. The only two remaining, my worry rock and my coffee cup.

I had an epiphany when I was staring at a stack of job folders. In that moment, I realized I had used every resource in my power to transform that experience into a job worth keeping. I knew there was nothing left in my toy chest to change my circumstances.

I picked up the worry rock, coffee cup and brief case. I walked by the V.P.’s, desk conveniently while he was on the phone, and said “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore”. He followed me out and I surrendered my office key. He asked me to reconsider, and I responded with the unthinkable. The truth. I told him, he didn’t need me, he needed the others in my position to do their part instead of screwing around.

I still haven’t forgiven myself for walking away without proper notice. Giving up. Two years have passed. I suppose it is forgotten by all, except me. I’m fiercely loyal, but that job broke me. I could never overcome the constraints of a family-owned-nepotism-favored-females-are-inferior-what-do-you-mean-you-don’t-embrace-our-religion-of-choice-let’s-discriminate-against-minorites-and-customers-who-market-stuff-we-find-deplorable-though-not-ilegal.

Why can’t i forgive myself for escaping a bad situation? Why can’t allow myself the privilege of enjoying the fruits of the Mister’s good luck (his words, not mine). I AM lucky. I have the privilege of staying home and being a woman of leisure. I’m not a woman of inaction.

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It’s times like these that I better understand impotence. Who knew I would allow a job, even a shitty job, to define my self worth. I thought I was more mature than that.

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When I ran into Clay it was surreal. Not because I had not seen him in ten years, but the quality in his voice. Strangely, it felt like an intervention. His voice had a genuine peaceful quality about it. I can’t explain why, only that it did.