I have had the luxury of not being a part of corporate America this past year. But as with all luxuries, they wear out and need replacing.
My wife, who has been patient with me, is beginning to show signs of her tolerance wearing out. She's risk adverse and would like to see me become a worthwhile, measurable economic producer to the household again.
That's not to say I haven't contributed anything this past year. I've been close to home to avert any logistical disasters with the kids - a.k.a chauffeur. I've been pursuing personal projects that are personally enriching (if not financially), and thus I have been a happier person which spills into a happier household (there's no money in that).
Thankfully, we are not facing dire financial consequences any time soon, but I have to agree that it would be good to replenish the pot before the flames start licking at my heels. I just don't want to do it the old-fashioned way - by working for corporate America.
Unfortunately, the easiest way to make money is to do the bidding for someone else. And while it goes against my grain, I have been quietly applying to jobs that match my past work history - marketing positions within financial services companies.
To my surprise, I have been getting responses from my submissions. In fact, several interviews have been scheduled.
My immediate reaction was to throw caution to the wind and tell my wife that I may soon be a productive member of society again. But the word, "may", stuck in my head. What if I didn't get the job? Or worse, what if I did and didn't want to take it? And doubly worse, what if my wife tracked my job progress like a bloodhound looking for an escaped prisoner? As a friend once said, "Honesty has no place in a relationship."
I decided to keep the prospects under wraps. And if a job offer presented itself, that would be my little selfless gift back to the family.
So there I was, at home in the middle of the day, getting ready for my big interview that afternoon. I was putting on the suit and tie when all of a sudden my wife walked in.
"What are you doing?" she asked the startled dresser (me).
"What are you doing home?" I asked hoping to divert the matter.
"I told you I was taking a vacation day. You forgot? And what are you doing in a suit?" (the bloodhound hunts)
When it comes down to it, we’re all just gonna be some skin and bones left on this so-called plate of life. It’s pure hell if you think about it.
And lately, I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. You see, I’m convinced that I’m already dead and this is hell.
That’s been my mantra for a while. I know it’s not too uplifting, believe me I know.
What brought me to this dismal conclusion? That’s what this blog is about - a collection of stories, examples, proofs, etc., that show without hesitation that I’m already dead and this is hell.
But don’t let me take the limelight. I know after you read some of these entries, you’ll find examples in your own “life” that will enable that light bulb to pop on and help you explain the inexplicable. You’ll soon realize that WE'RE already dead and living uncomfortably together in hell. So please, feel free to send me your stories, or just browse through mine. As Freud said, “It’s therapeutic, Mrs. Pappenheim.”