Make It Go

Inside, I feel a little like the wick of a candle when the wax is gone and the fire fizzles out. I’m short and charred, and would crumble between two fingers.

I am burnt out.

I’ve put so much in. Everyday another word, another hope, another idea.

Everyday another page.

Sometimes I’m not sure there’s enough in me. Someday I’ll dip my bucket into the well and I won’t pull up any more words.

I’ll be dry.

I’m giving this all I have. I’ve been blazing for weeks, a flickering heat with endless fuel shedding light in darkness.

But today, I’m burnt out.

I gave it everything, and now I sit and anticipate familiar rejection. And when it comes, I hope I can catch a spark again.

Because I don’t know what I’m doing.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with my life,” I sighed a I struggled to keep up with my sister’s stride. Her Brittany Spaniel, Ruby, was trotting at her side and my Doberman, Chevy, pulled me along.

“I don’t think anyone really knows what they’re doing with their life,” Sarah replied, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s just weird,” I continued. “I want to be successful. I want to work hard. But I don’t know what I want to work hard at.”

“Just do what makes you happy,” she offered as she halted to tear a twig from Ruby’s mouth. “The world would be a much better place if we all just did what makes us happy.”

Who’s the older sibling, here, exactly?

“Writing makes me happy,” I said, patting Chevy’s head and looking at the bare trees around us. The faded imprints of autumn’s leaves still lingered upon the concrete beneath our tennis shoes.

“Then do it,” Sarah told me.

“It’s not that simple,” I retorted. “I have to be real about this. What are the flipping odds anything I write is going to go anywhere beyond my office?”

“You make it go.”

I’ve been told before to keep trying. To never give up. That I can do it. But these 4 words in that small slice of time on the trail struck me. They collided with my body and left me stumbling.

I make it go.

Right now, I’m tired. I’m so burnt out I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.

But I will recover.

And I’ll keep at it.

Because that’s what we do as humans.

We pull strength from empty places

and we make it go.

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The Forks We Find

I am officially on day “Finding Forks in my Paperwork” of quarantine.

I must admit, the two things I am doing most throughout lockdown are eating and writing. Sometimes even at the same time. And there’s nothing classier than licking molten cheese off your keyboard.

For those of us fortunate enough to be working from home, I am certain many will struggle with the transition back to normal office life after the ‘rona rescinds and we emerge from the darkness of our homes. In a way, we have been able to take a vacation from adulting. While it will be nice to rekindle a sense of normalcy and reconnect with the world, there are several things I am completely dreading about returning to corporate.

1. I must wear pants at all times.
2. I should probably shower daily.
3. It is most likely not acceptable to have The Office playing in the background as I work.
4. Pooping in a public restroom again is going to suck.
5. A 3 pm desk cocktail is probably frowned upon.
6. My dog is going to wonder why I don’t want to hang out with her anymore.
7. I will be judged for keeping a party-size box of extra toasty Cheez-Itz on my desk.
8. It’s peopley there.  
9. It won’t be sanitary to lick the molten cheese off my work keyboard.
10. People probably will not appreciate finding forks in the filing cabinets nearly as much as I do.

Here’s to the transition back, whenever that may be. Our reality is quite unpredictable right now. The best we can do is stay positive, take it one day at a time, and laugh at the forks we find along the way.

The Identity Crisis

As I rise to a more advanced level of adulting (you know, like this is a video game or something), I find myself yanked toward a less adult-like view of my life and the direction I should be headed. It’s strange; one would assume my delusions would decrease as I age, but these days they seem more prominent than ever. They are a thriving, twisting essence existing above my mind. I try to reach for them, my fingers nearly grazing the aura around them, but I never quite grasp them at their core.

I have always been a motivated individual. Like most, I am inspired by money to a certain extent. But to a higher degree, I am driven by titles and the perception of success. Paycheck aside, does my title and achievements portray an image of an efficacious adult? This is the mindset that pushed me through grad school and countless interviews for my dream job. This is the point of view through which I strategically mapped a ten-year career path with my company, and this is the vision which has propelled my exceptional work ethic each day.

Knowing these qualities and this drive within myself, I should be craving leadership. I should be after the management position for my team as soon as it opens. I should be meticulously following the plan, ready to play the game, anxious to dive deep in a black lake of politics.

But I am tripping in this spot.

The older I get

The more I write

The more creativity I bring into my role at work

The more I realize I want nothing to do with the political game attached to management in a corporate setting. It’s a toxic, obligatory appendage that could never be amputated, and I don’t think I want it.

And here lies the identity crisis.

There are two things I want more than anything in this world, more than I want to be a leader or a manager.

To write, and to be a mama.

My adult brain is telling me I am supposed to keep pushing my corporate career and become a successful leader…But my heart is screaming to be a successful creator. I fear leadership will offer no room for creation, and this is terrifying me.

Tripping me.

I love my current role, because I get to build something meaningful from scratch. Am I willing to trade that satisfaction for an executive title with a knotted mess of strings attached?

There is an invisible line drawn between passion and profession, and I am dancing on it. Sometimes, we find ourselves believing our passion cannot possibly be our profession. Creative writing completes my soul while the corporate game pays the bills and builds this mirage of success.

​Could passion ever be profession?

Let’s find out. 

The Fart Box

Professional. /prəˈfeSH(ə)n(ə)l/. Adjective. Relating to or connected with a profession. “Young professional people.” Synonyms: White Collar, executive. Nonmanual. “People in professional occupations.”

Pencil skirts.
Ties.
Briefcases.
Cubicles.
Desk phones with cords.
Laptops.
Branded coffee mugs.

And amongst these items, people are perfect, mature, professional adults collaborating and creating and succeeding.
“Why does it smell like a FART in here?”

Perfect, mature, professional adults.

Klarissa drops her bag in the doorway and sniffs the air. “It smells like fart in here!” She repeats, wrinkling her nose.
I chuckle and shake my head. “One dude snuck one out 3 weeks ago and it LINGERED.”
Klarissa sighs heavily and trudges toward her desk, bag dragging lazily on the ground. She flips her raven hair over her shoulder and collapses into her chair, glaring across the table.  We don’t have cubes up here in this mezzanine afterthought of an office. We are spread out along a giant table and share shoulder space. We have to suck it in when people squeeze by behind us, and we might as well just start walking on the tables to get to the exit.

If there’s ever a fire, we’re all dead.

“I can’t believe this,” Klarissa continues. “They took away our downtown office. They’re changing our logo. They’re shrinking this department.” She groans and drops her face into her hands. “I’m glad I am moving to Vietnam. I mean, I am just fresh out.” She checks her bag, rummages around. “Yep,” she confirms, “Fresh out of fucks.”
“There’s the name of our new podcast,” I announce, leaning back and spinning in my chair. “Farts and Fucks.”
We share a laugh that is quickly silenced when the door swings open.
“Oh, Tim,” I greet. “It’s just you. Hey buddy.”
“Hi!” Tim waves as he makes his way toward his desk beside mine. “How is everyone?” He asks, his signature wide smile stretching across his cheeks.
Before Klarissa and I can answer, more employees pile in to this claustrophobic prison where we long for a glimpse outside and slowly asphyxiate on methane. The three of us share a look, then simultaneously shift our eyes to our computers.

Tim 8:23 AM:
does anyone else think it smells like a giant fart again today?

Klarissa 8:23 AM:
ALWAYS. like wtf???

Kaitlin 8:23 AM:
I can’t keep it together if we keep talking about farts & fucks.

Klarissa 8:23 AM:
hahaha the name of our podcast. I’d listen to that.

Tim 8:23 AM:
should i stand up and say “who is shitting their pants?!”

Klarissa 8:23 AM:
HAHAHAH

Klarissa 8:24 AM:
I think we broke Kaitlin. She’s crying.

Klarissa 8:24 AM:
LOLOL i fucking can’t

Kaitlin 8:24 AM:
god i’m so mature. laughing at farts. #adult.

Tim 8:25 AM:
hahaha

Klarissa 8:25 AM:
dude no matter how old i am, farts are ALWAYS going to be funny

Kaitlin 8:25 AM:
so true. always.

Klarissa 8:25 AM:
i can be 92 and still laughing my ass off at my own farts

Tim 80:26 AM:
at 92 we probably won’t even know we are farting

Kaitlin 8:26 AM:
Fact.

Klarissa 8:28 AM:
I’m really sick of it smelling like farts up in here. This is not professional.

Too many of us spend our lives working because we must, rather than because we want to. I work here because I like to buy nice things and decided adulting means having a big house. Maybe one day the writing will pay the bills and passion will finally become profession. But in the meantime, coworkers like Klarissa and Tim make the office days tolerable. They bring joy to the monotony of desk work and the world of machinery. This was never the plan, working in this industry, but things tend to snowball, and I consider it all a part of the journey.

How many times along this journey should I have been fired for laughing to myself at my desk, tears streaming down the sides of my face?

Debatable.

Things could certainly be worse here. Indeed, we have it rather good, if you think of this fart box as more a penthouse in the sky with a world-class view of packaging machinery across a shop floor. I suppose in the grand scheme of things, an office reeking of flatulence isn’t that bad.

I once thought working in an office would completely capture the essence of adulting, but I am not certain that’s true. In the 2 office settings I’ve worked in, it was far from what I pictured. From shooting nerf darts across lines of cubicles to bitching about farts on skype, I learned that being an adult professional does not omit fun nor frustration. What makes the professional is how she manages these things.

Publicly.

I will bitch all day long to my friends on Skype, but when I address concerns with the boss, I am professionalism.

The difficulties of professionalism and adulting aside, there exists an unwritten rulebook of office etiquette, and far too many remain ignorant of its existence.

1. Chew with your damn mouth closed. You’re disgusting.
2. Do NOT fart in an enclosed and/or crowded area.
3. Do NOT play sound from your laptop without earbuds when those around you are working.
4. NEVER talk politics and religion at the office. You might think you and your homeboy Trump are right all day long, but you are offending the hell out of the liberal millennial across from you and annoying the shit out of the moderate temperamental writer sitting beside you. And I like Jesus as much as the next guy, but please do everyone a favor and keep the preaching at church, not in the office.
5. Don’t even THINK about talking to me if my headphones are in. This is office language for DO NOT DISTURB.

Speaking of office language, as a professional, I have come to speak this dialect quite fluently and learned the translation of certain phrases. For example:

• Per my last email = CAN YOU FUCKING READ?
• I will prioritize my schedule = I don’t have time for this bullshit.
• It may benefit the group if…= Here’s what we’re going to do to make this easier on me.
• Copying the boss on an email = I’m telling on you, Carl. Do your job.
• Let’s table that thought = your idea sucks, Susan.
• As soon as I get through these emails = I’m scrolling Facebook, ask me later.
• Want to do lunch? = Wait till you hear the hunk of juicy gossip I’ve got for you.
• Can you offer some support? = I’m drowning, here, Janet, get off your ass and help me!
• I’m experiencing some technical difficulties = This computer is a PILE, and if you tell me to turn it off and back on again, SO HELP ME GOD.,,

Thankfully, we have instant message systems like Skype for employees to speak English to one another throughout the work day and let go of that office language filter. But, let’s be honest. If this company ever decides to pull my Skype conversations, I am so fired.

Tim 11:38 AM:
what time do ya’ll want to go to lunch?

Kaitlin 11:38 AM:
now

Klarissa 11:40 AM:
right after i finish this script and go to the pee room

Tim 11:40 AM:
just pee in your chair. No one will know

Kaitlin 11:40 AM:
Me. I will know.

Tim 11:41 AM:
That’s why these chairs are mesh fabric

Klarissa 11:41 AM:
makes sense now

Tim 11:41 AM:
right

Klarissa 11:43 AM:
we are cogs in a machine. we aren’t allowed to eat and pee

Klarissa 11:43 AM:
solution? mesh chairs

Kaitlin 11:44 AM:
what about #2

Klarissa 11:44 AM:
hold it in until you die of shit

Tim 11:44 AM:
or let it out and then the fart box becomes a poop box

Kaitlin Staniulis 11:45 AM:
let it gooo, let it GOOO,,, can’t hold it in any moreeeeee

Tim 11:45 AM:
OMG

Klarissa 11:45 AM:
OMG I’m gonna put a picture of Elsa in the restroom stalls

Kaitlin 11:45 AM:
YES

Kaitlin 11:45 AM:
TAPE IT OVER THE ACTIVITIES COMMITTEE FLIERS

Klarissa 11:46 AM:
that’ll be my magnum opus and last contribution to this company

Klarissa 11:46 AM:
my wildfire moment

Tim 11:46 AM:
HAHA #Gameofthrones

Klarissa 11:47 AM:
Elsa with wildfire explosion behind her

Klarissa 11:47 AM:
i’d buy that

Kaitlin 11:47 AM:
COMIC CON GOLD

Klarissa 11:48 AM:
ya’ll better quit your jobs now, momma bout to get rich off nerds.

One day, dear friend.

Drawing and writing and living our passion like the adults we were meant to be.