High Pedestals

Last night, I laid on my couch watching Dateline and before I could find out what (or who) killed Cory Lovelace, I fell asleep with a bloated stomach from a fully loaded Chipotle bowl, 2 slices of cheese pizza, and 2.5 glasses of Merlot. I woke up right when News 4 NY at 11 came on, and I had the urge to pee and pour another glass of wine. That’s when I noticed I had an alert on Facebook Messenger.

“I think about u SO much!!” the text read.  It was a classmate I barely remember from high school.
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“Wow, I hope it’s all good things…” I responded as I poured my third and a half round of Jesus juice to almost the top of my wine glass.

He went on to say that he thought about me all the time and he had been feeling me since high school. He also said that he was ready to make it happen.

“Uh, thanks but make what happen?” I asked.

He messaged back that he wanted to get closer to me. He said I had my stuff together and so did he, and that he wanted to come and visit me and get to know me better.

Being slightly sarcastic, I responded, “It took you 15 years to figure this out?”

He said, “Honestly, yes. I’ve always had you on a high pedestal and just didn’t know how to tell ya. (Nerves & everything else).”

I sat on my couch with a half empty glass of wine, rubbed on my food bump with this aching feeling of needing to take a shit, and stared at his response for five minutes unsure of how I should respond. I don’t know if I was more astonished that he waited 15 years to tell me how he felt or that he held me on a “high pedestal” and thought I had my stuff together.   

After writing then deleting four different responses, I finally texted back, “Interesting, let me know when you’re in NYC.”

I leaned back on my couch and watched news coverage of Hurricane Nate potentially strengthening to a Category 2 on its path to the Gulf Coast, and thought about just how much I felt like I don’t have my shit together.

On October 2, I started a new high paying position at a major financial institution that is ranked the second largest bank in the US by assets. It’s a predictable job most people would die to have, but by October 4, I already knew I hated it. Hate is such a strong word, so let me rephrase – I loathed my boring responsibilities. It’s not a job with tasks I can’t do; it’s just not something I’m used to solely doing. They hired me as a web designer. Yep, that’s all I do. I design websites for events. Having worked in the sports and entertainment industry when being on the sidelines for football games, or having behind the scenes experience at sold-out concerts and at Super Bowl XLVIII, or hosting a suite filled with free food, beer and wine on game day for senior level executives meant cool perks, comp tickets to games and Broadway plays, and VIP access as part of the position, I realized my new role is definitely not that.

It has been 6 months since my contract ended at FOX Networks, and I had applied to over 50 jobs without so much as an interview. My new job came about when a recruiter contacted me through LinkedIn. It was the first time someone was interested in me, the job matched one facet of my diversified skill set in event management, and they readily agreed to my salary requirement. Since my unemployment was about to end, and I spent the entire summer tanning my majestic melanin at the semi-nude Jacob Riis Park Beach, binge-watching various shows, movies, and documentaries on Netflix, reading, writing, exercising, starting my blog, and basically doing whatever the fuck I wanted to at my leisure, I figured it was time to get back in the New York rat race. Truth be told, I took the job out of desperation and divine destiny.

But I’m not happy. I’m happy that I have a great paying job and can pay my bills, but that’s where the buck stops. It’s not my passion. #FirstWorldProblems

The news goes off and Jimmy Fallon comes on. Taraji P. Henson is one of the guests.

After finishing the glass of wine and watching Taraji talk to Jimmy about her meditation rituals and Tibetan Singing Bowls, I belched and my stomach got flatter. Suddenly, I was hungry again. Honestly, I didn’t know if I wanted to eat a snack or a full meal, pour another glass of wine or two, meditate and pray, write, listen to music, play Candy Crush on my phone, go back to sleep, or watch Roc and Shay on pornhub.com. I just needed a distraction from thinking about my new job, my career, my family, my life’s path, my 2.5+ years of being celibate and how horny I was, my longing to find my soulmate, get married and have kids, my chipped toenail polish from a spa pedicure I got a week ago, my overeating fatty foods due to my conflicted feelings about my job (or was it just cravings because I’ll be shedding my uterine lining in about 7 days?), and this whole “high pedestal” bullshit.

Clearly, I don’t have my shit together. Objectively, I know that I’m not where I used to be. Subjectively, I realize that I’m not where I want to be nor doing what I desire to be doing. I’m a beautiful, bloated mess of struggle and hustle wrapped in strength and hope.

Did he send me that message because I posted a picture of myself on social media earlier that day in a suit I haven’t worn in almost 10 months or had he finally decided that tonight was the night and he’s just going to go for it?

Either way, I really didn’t care. It was now way past midnight, and I was tired of overthinking about how I see myself and my future, and how others see me or what they think of me. I poured another glass of wine – this time half way, a generous half way. I quickly gulped it down and thought…

I may not have my shit together, but at least I know I don’t have my shit together. And just maybe I’ll take a good shit tomorrow morning, and start to figure my shit out.

Then I went to bed.