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The hipster server sets Andy’s French toast and my bagel sandwich down on the smudged, marble-topped table.

The tabletop makes me think of the conversation I’d overheard between two marble craters days before we’d moved out of our Raleigh apartment.

And as Andy pours syrup over powdered sugar, I remember something else: sitting in that exact same spot months before the craters’ conversation in our quickly emptying apartment; retreating to the familiarity of a homemade mocha and syrupy carbs 3,000 miles away from my home state of seven years, from the man with whom I’d finally made a home; looking out into LA’s great vastness, and wondering where and how we’d fit into it.

Carbs help.

But now, that mental noise has been quieted. I’m not staring into my brunch like a fortune-teller into a crystal ball.

Mocha or crystal ball? A bit of both.

We eat, laugh, and digest the morning, and all the mornings leading to it.

***

Later that evening, we’re settling in for a double feature. Revolutionary Road fades onscreen and I’m thrown back to the day we made our decision to move. And the torturous day after, and the weeks of wondering, hoping, scrimping, and pushing that followed.

The kind words and cheers to keep going.

And the ecstatic moment of realizing it was all worth it. The whirlwind move, and the journey out here. And the continuous momentum required to stay centered and focused.

***

A few days before I got my job offer last week, I’d read a blog post that detailed the difficulties facing today’s younger generations–specifically the drying job well and the market’s increasingly competitive landscape. But the thing that really stuck in my craw was the overtly negative tone–the insinuation that we’re completely screwed.

To be certain, we’re not exactly operating in an economic environment where we can easily rebound from job loss without having a developed contingency plan. But instead of dwelling on the gray lining, we all have to find that sliver of silver that’ll keep us pushing toward our goals.

Since getting to CA, I’ve been writing and applying for jobs and writing more to try and land a job that I find personally fulfilling, but doesn’t consume my life–doesn’t derail what it is that I truly love to do: write. We’ve been so conditioned to focus on one thing at a time and think that there’s no time to pursue one’s passions while working a full-time job. But with my new job looming, I’m feeling increasingly motivated to juggle more balls–to keep writing, to flesh out business plans, to look to the future more as an untapped well of possibilities rather than a dried desert.

***

Paris, Je T’aime queues up, and Andy and I get completely lost amid the competing storylines. I’m quickly reminded that life can be a general mess.

Just as I think, This movie is so weird. Surely, Maggie Gyllenhaal is in it, her French-speaking self skitters across the screen to buy a joint. But then Juliet Binoche chases after her dead son’s ghost and tips a glass to Gena Rowlands. And then, there’re mimes. Two mimes. Two. And then a blind guy gets dumped. Or so we think. And we feel bad because he’s really upset. But, oh, it’s just the struggling artist, Natalie Portman, kidding around. Silly Natalie Portman. But do we ever see the two hot gays from the beginning again? Of course not. But we do get to see Elijah Wood sort of kill himself in a tragic attempt to become a vampire’s lover.

Like the movie, life is full of oddities, characters, and experiences–some good, some bad, some just plain weird. But its chaos can also be beautiful.

***

The movie ends as abruptly as its first scene. We lay on the bed, watching the credits.

“So, I’m confused. How did the mime go from sad to happy?”

Andy gets up and impersonates, moving his hands over his face, producing a frown, then a smile.

“Up is happy, down is sad.”

Then I guess we’re up.
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Rekindling the Phoenix

The morning is off to a rocky start. Still drowsy, my mind is being anything but cooperative.

Give me more coffee.

I blog, browse Facebook, send off another job application, and refresh my email.

Garbage. Spam. Spam. Garbage. What the?

Now, you’re seeing things.

I stare at the subject line: “Conditional Job Offer.” Dumbfounded, I open it. Read through the content. Scream. And nearly hit my head on the apartment ceiling.

Fine. Enjoy this. But after you come down, we really need to reconsider coffee.

***

My mind brims with the possibilities. Everything that Andy and I have been talking about doing “one day” or “when we have the means” is one big step closer to becoming a reality.

Leaving our closet-sized Koreatown studio for a West Hollywood retreat. Adopting pets. Starting an online antique business. Socking-away money into savings. Traveling.

All because we’ve kept pushing the boundaries instead of settling for comfortable.

***

Right before we moved out here, I was reading a blog by someone who’d made a similar move to California. But he’d moved pre-recession, and had a lot more money saved up than we did. Still, he’d packed his car, left a job he’d loathed, and vowed to start over. It took a lot of work, but it only took him a month to get a new job and start re-building his life.

I’d rolled my eyes at the tight turnaround. Sure. I’ll be able to do that, too. Especially in my field.

But I knew then that I wasn’t going to be searching for a job in cultural resources. I wanted a change, and this was the perfect time to embrace it. So I opened myself up to other opportunities and took a long, hard look at my experiences and what I could cobble together for myself. And it’s paid off. Because I stopped looking to my degrees for all the answers–and started looking in the mirror.

The road leading to this morning’s joy-filled email wasn’t paved with rainbows. It took a lot of work, and a lot of self-confidence I didn’t have when I started. Because I had to remind myself how to dust myself off and keep plugging after repeatedly reading “We wish you well in your employment endeavors.” Both of us have had to keep pushing one another to get the payoff. Because it only takes one offer to negate multiple rejections.

So now, two months after moving here, I have a job that I’m excited about. Not just because it’s another paycheck, but because it’s something that’ll make me feel worthwhile–like I’m making a difference. Plus, I’m in a better place to realize that, while it may be great, it’s still a job. And a job isn’t life. It can improve it, but it can’t be its substitute.

So while this is just one step of many more, it’s one we’re taking together. As we begin realizing that we’re the architects of our future.

That we can build something spectacular.

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Into the Den of Inequity

Retracing your employment history can be an emboldening exercise–reminding you of where you’ve been and what you’ve accomplished, and all of the experiences that have brought you to this moment.

A moment that quickly devolves into you defending your rationale for wanting Job X, and why you really don’t care that you have an advanced degree, because, well, the economy has been in the shitter and you’d just like a paycheck, please.

Eyebrows raise.

Uncomfortable, stilted chuckles punctuate the awkward silences.

But you keep smiling, if for no other reason than to prevent yourself from screaming and throwing the tragically upholstered chair you’re sitting in out the window.

After all, it’s not the chair’s fault.

You knew this was going to happen.

***

We’ve all experienced Battered Employee Syndrome–the sense that a work experience or situation isn’t the fault of our crazed employer, but our own.

We apologize.

Run back.

Hide the emotional damage they’ve wrought with plenty of smiles and “yes, your right”‘s.

Sometimes, though, we need an intervention. Like the one I had several years ago at the dismal conclusion of my graduate school experience.

And yet, yesterday I found myself walking onto an academic institution’s campus, feeling that same sense of dread creeping up inside me, crushing the breath out of me like ten cats eating the face off of their dying cat lady owner.

But as I waited outside prior to my interview, I chided myself.

They’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. It’s nothing like Chapel Hill. That was four years ago! Snap out of it, already! Plus, this is on the other side of the fucking country!

Deep down, I knew better.

Because, as much as I hate making gross generalizations, there’s always been a thematic thread stitching together every academic institution that’s become a part of my personal history.

And that lone thread makes the whole sweater itchy and uncomfortable and stifling.

***

I put on my best poker face, walk through the door, and immediately feel uneasy. And not just because I have to ask a David Bowie doppelganger for directions while navigating through the labyrinthine auditorium to the office.

Soon enough, I’m in the lioness’s den. And her cubs pull and tug and twist my resume and experiences as much as they can–tenderizing everything before she goes for the jugular.

Still, as I sit there bleeding out like a disfigured antelope, I defend her–try to rationalize away her repeated bites. Which keep coming as my head spins.

“So, I mean, you know this isn’t, like, an education role. You’ll be doing really low-level stuff.”

She motions toward the administrative assistant at her desk.

“I understand the role and its components, and I’m fully prepared to take it on, regardless of the level of work required.”

“But, you have an advanced degree. And why in Anthropology?”

Hon, I ask myself that every single day.

“Well, I believe the positions I’ve held, whether in a volunteer or employed capacity, are thematically tied through public interfacing and outreach. Connecting with people and facilitating their needs through a variety of channels. And I believe, taken collectively, my experiences align with the skills required to perform the tripartite functions of this role.”

A quizzical, dismissive look and wry smile.

“I see.”

I long for a vodka cran.

***

One more interview later, I’m confined to a cubicle-like office to complete a few “exercises” to test my abilities. I look from the computer screen to the stack of exercise prompts, then my watch.

I’ve been here for two hours. I’ve interviewed with five people. And now I have four multi-component exercises to complete by 6:30 PM? Girl, please.

And I stare at the prompts, flummoxed. While I’m perfectly capable of learning Excel formulas in a short amount of time, I certainly don’t have them filed away in rote memory. The same can be said for performing some convoluted mail-merge exercise.

I try to open the Internet to search for the “how-to” functions, but access is routed through the institution’s portal.

Foiled!

So I complete the most difficult tasks–the ones that I feel speak more to my web-based capabilities than Excel functions that I can glean from an Excel for Dummies book.

Straighten my coat and tie. Get up. And let her know I’m done.

“Alright. You should be getting a call from me by the end of next week.”

I smile.

Shake hands.

And want to scream.

***

After Andy reassures me that I’m not nuts, that the process as I relayed it to him was really bizarre and not transparent, I hang up and drive home.

But all I can think about is the whole process.

How completely unprepared most of the interviewers were with their questions.

The accusatory tones of the senior staff’s fragmented questions.

The holier-than-thou academia-laden drivel they used to try and veil their social ineptitude.

And the kicker, from the lioness herself: “Well, your experiences are sort of all over the place. So what makes you think you are a good fit for this position?”

Y’all. The lioness poked the bear.

Because some of us haven’t been able to retreat within the confining walls of academia our entire professional lives. We haven’t been stunted socially, only able to interact with other socially-inept academics who have very little sense of self, and a high opinion of everything they’ve ever written. We’ve actually waded into the murky depths of the depressed job market, rather than orbit–like soon-to-be-retired planets–around the same dying star that academia has become. We learn from every new role. We do what we can to make ends meet. We do not quibble over job deviations from our former profession. We embrace change and do what’s necessary to make it in today’s world. We diversify our skill sets. Unlike you.

“This institution is built upon a diverse experience of the world, and I believe my diversified skill set is complemented and bolstered by my experiences in corporate, non-profit, and federal contexts, allowing me to exercise sound judgment and fulfill job expectations through informed, socially aware tacks.”

***

The vodka is ice cold. The ice cream is a little melted. The chocolate is dark and rich. Dinner is ready.

And Andy’s hugs are tight.

This, the present, is all that matters.

Not the battered past.

Not a skewed future blighted with malignancies.

Just this.

And that’s all the incentive I need to succeed.