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Stress Pools

~ Carie ~ 4 Comments

I work too hard. You may not believe that statement.

I come from a long, proud tradition of workaholics. We don’t know when to stop. We let work grind us into dust. We are so focused on what has to get done, we forget about the things which need to be done.

My father is a prime example. Aside from the two consecutive weeks each year he took off to drive around the U.S. with the family in tow, I don’t remember a day he didn’t go to work. He was gone before I woke in the morning. He walked in the door as dinner was being set on the table. Even today, he doesn’t stop. He’s retired, yet he’s unable sit down and relax. He has to be doing something. Anything. It’s go, go, go, until he sits down and passes out.

And then there’s his offspring. We’re not the best examples of how to live a full life. We try, but even the bulk of our travel is for work. Over the last year, I transferred to a new position, got a promotion, and dove in to the deep end of my personal pool of stress. It has paid off—in some ways. People love what I do. It’s a blessing, but confounding at the same time. I’m drowning, barely able to dog-paddle anymore, yet people stop me to compliment me. So hard work pays off. Right?

Would it pay as much if I worked a little less? Would people like it if I didn’t give it my all? I don’t know. Thing is, I have no right to complain. Every day on the news after filtering through all the extraneous celebrity hype, I’m reminded of people who have nothing, people who are hungry, people who are ill. I’m allowed to sit here and moan over work and stress.

A dear friend of mine is going through chemo. I can’t imagine that process. My descent at the office is nothing compared to her day-to-day. My closest experience was decades ago, and I was only radioactive. I couldn’t hold my nephew for most of the first year of his life. No skin to skin contact with anyone. No public restrooms. No reusable dishes. I hate to clean the bathroom today because I had to clean and wipe it down with bleach every day. I did do things I shouldn’t have, because I was only radioactive. I didn’t go to the doctor every week to have poison pushed into my body. I recovered and grew stronger. My friend suffers and grows weaker as she fights a cancer. This is supposed to make her stronger. So, my workaholic ways and the resulting stress are poppy-cock. She tells me my overwork and stress are real. I’m comparing apples and oranges. I disagree. They are both fruit.

It filters down to life is short. Our epitaph shouldn’t read, “I worked a lot.” No one would notice if I didn’t work into the middle of the night. Those things I’m killing myself to get done can wait. I need to reset my brain to understand it’s okay. I’m not a superhero. I’m not going to be the one to save the planet, especially as I sit in front of a computer putting together marketing plans and writing corporate blogs. My work is meaningful, but the world will continue to turn whether I’m stressed or not. My friends and family, on the other hand, may be happier if I spent more time with them. Maybe even on one of those two-week road trips.

The Internet-Free Hacienda

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

Life without instantaneous internet availability at the house is proving to be a trying experience. Missives need to be sent, movies to be watched, and talks to be had with you lovely readers, but I am restricted to public wifi. The difficulty is I am not fond of the “public.” I fear the nefarious hacker who could be present and up to no good. Kind of like the NSA hacking SSL info. No one needs to know that much. It’s a bit beyond Big Brother.

The real problem is the internet and cable companies obviously do not employee enough people to accommodate the demand for their services. I have a two-hour window in the middle of my workday about a month from my move-in date. For a Saturday appointment, it was a six-week wait. Does that make sense? Not to me. Hire a few more technicians. Look at me creating jobs. I would also like more evening and weekend appointments. Why are we trying to fit everything into a nine-to-five window? There must be qualified technicians who don’t want to work mornings. My office can’t be the only place with people wandering in as close to ten as they can push it. Someone else has to be a night owl willing to work until seven or eight in the evening if they can get an extra hour of sleep in the morning. It’s called work shifts, people.

In order to build wealth, one needs to work, and I can’t very well achieve much at work while I sit around waiting for people at home. Some of us don’t have minions willing to do our bidding and haven’t cloned ourselves yet. There’s not a spare me to sit around waiting during my “appointment window” while me me goes to meetings. Yet there is so much waiting to be done.

 

Swimming in Mental Drama

Image ~ ~ Carie ~ 1 Comment
Orin Zebest-Rio Vista, CA
Orin Zebest-Rio Vista, CA

I try to do too much. It’s my normal. What am I to do if no deadline exists? Without the busy-ness, my brain takes a dive into the pool of depression. In reaction, I isolate myself—only drifting further into dangerous waters. So I am busy. On purpose.

At work, I am in the heart of holiday. We are building Black Friday, rebuilding Black Friday, getting Christmas underway, and preparing for the frenzy of New Year’s. At home, I am ready to move back. I face a flurry of walkthroughs, city approvals and financial data. With my current book, it’s time. I am pushing through revisions. I am fighting to get the pictures right on the page. I am carefully picking through word choice. Or I think I am.

I shut down this week. Tuesday night, toward the end of class, the instructor said something that struck me wrong. Somewhere in the dark crevices of my grey matter I lost it. This level of frustration is unlike me. I can file away any emotion for examination later, but this one. I dove head first into a mental tailspin, too stubborn and angry to pull myself out.

I have written before about revision. I told you to let go, and I meant it, but this one off-hand statement set off every alarm. I cannot clearly tell you why. My just-roll-with-it attitude stopped dead in its tracks and prepared for battle, but there was no one to fight. I had to seek help, and quick. Otherwise, my manuscript would end up in a heap of deletions—last man standing in the Alamo.

As humans (not as that ethereal thing known as a “creative”), we need help. We need outlets for all of the stuff running around in our heads. Other creatures do not sit around questioning themselves. They do not contemplate the pitch of their howls. We do.

So my advice this week is to not be afraid. There will be a moment of dark, but it’s not as bleak as you believe. Like my drive to be busy, help is everywhere. I met with an editor today. Their words settled me. They gave guidance. They offered light. That’s all I needed. I needed to stand face-to-face with the fear my writing is unworthy. I needed something to settle the beasts.

The Anti-Christmas

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I loathe christmas. Yes, with a lower-case “c.” In my eyes, there’s not a lot of Christ in it any more. Why? Let’s go back to the fact I work in advertising. We’re in full gear on holiday advertising. We’ve talked about it, run the estimates, negotiated the prices, ordered the product, worked on concepts and attended far too many meetings. By the time the Clydesdales make their appearance on TV (and, oh, how I love those beautiful horses), I will want to slap anyone who brings up Santa or shopping.

Don’t get me wrong. I take every chance I get to spend time with my family and friends. I just don’t enjoy the holiday. It is too commercialized. Look at it. People camp out for days in front of stores just to get a cheap television, cheap toy or cheap t-shirt. Is this really how we give thanks? Is this what we want to teach our children? I guess so. Our gods aren’t solely made of gold anymore. They’re made of plastic, glass, motherboards and flammable fabrics. That aside, wouldn’t you be better off spending all of that time with your friends, spouse or children?

Granted, my job is to make you want to do these things, but what happened to your brain? My own godchildren are too busy checking out the labels to understand the meaning of the gift. I give because I care about the person. And watch out, if I write you a letter (which I try my darndest to do amidst my tumultuous schedule), I am expressing a high level of admiration for our friendship. I’ve broken out the stationery and the fountain pens to express my thoughts. I have more love for the epistolary arts than I do for the holiday season.

This might be why I search for the right Christmas cards. I like to be inclusive of all of my family and friends. I like the cards which wish peace and joy for the season and the New Year ahead instead of focusing solely on Christmas or Santa. Don’t start with me about dropping “the reason for the season.” The reason is peace on earth and good will toward man. I wonder if we could all remember that every once in a while.

Off to Work I Go

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

I work in advertising—not the dramatic world of Mad Men, but in actual advertising. My specialty at the moment is deadlines. I’m not the one setting them. I am the one racing toward them. I take massive print and digital projects and whittle them down into the understandable and achievable. I manage art directors, layout designers, and copywriters in the dog eat dog world of retail advertising. It’s fun to be in the grit of the creative process, but, for me, it’s even more fun to see the work completed and out the door. I’ve always felt that way.

If I weren’t juggling multiple projects and didn’t need to rush headlong into the next one, I’m sure I’d be wrapped up in the anticipation of the launch. The break of a campaign is a delight, but the next big thing on the list is there to distract me. As it is now, I wake up one morning and WHAM! There it is.

When I was younger, the strangest moment was seeing someone I didn’t even know walking around with my work. It lit the oddest emotions. A flittering of shock in which it took a second to realize, yes, I did create that. I didn’t dawn on me what the reach of my occupation truly was until one vacation I took in upstate New York. I walked into a tiny boutique, and when I checked out, on the counter next to where I set my purse stood a holder filled with a brochure I had built for a basketball team. The sales clerk picked one up and held it out for me. She suggested I go to a game, “All the info on the team is right here.” A long, drawn out “wow” echoed in my head.

Over the span of years I have been in advertising, my work has appeared in all 50 states and several other countries. It’s a strange thought for me, even now. Someone in another country, let alone just another state, has seen something I created. Granted, it’s not a Picasso, but it is the work that pays me.

If you’ve opened a newspaper, had a USPS address, or signed up for emails from several corporations over the last several years (I won’t say how long), you’ve touched something I either created myself or helped through the creative process to get to you. You may not like me for that. You may be ranting I’m just a cog in a giant machine, but here’s the truth: I know almost every American between the ages of twenty-four and sixty-four have seen something I’ve done. That’s a pretty powerful thought.