Work Comes First

Love last.

I have never in my life been to “out of hit” “sad” “upset” or “heartbroken” to work …. 

Though I understand the experience, it is only from the abstract and distantly social sense. Look, I am not some robot. I am actually super sensitive, but quitting has never been part of that.  To that end, family time comes second too. Taking a break gives me cramps. Vacations scare me. 

I don’t know who I am when I am not working, and that is a good the thing. Not the only way, but a thing that for the brave readers of this post I aim to lay bare. What shall we call this propensity? (for you do know how here in America we all do love our definitions …) 

Shall we say: Ambition Aptitude?

Let’s break down Ambition – not in gain or ungracious social action, but in regard to velocity.  Movement. This is not about Benjamins, it is about service, aide, and value. 

Aptitude - that is in the eye of the beholder. Thus, what about we use the lenses of talent backed by application and practice. The “best” being the most conscious nibble approach, growth motivated, effervescent. And infinitely curious.  That is the kicker. 100% 

Writing this, and about the affection I feel from and for professional work is something I have shied away from. Part of the negative story I tell myself, about myself. The totems of which are thus:

·      I am cold

·      I am heartless

·      I am incapable of intimacy

·      I am worthless unless “performing”

·      I am not seen

·      I am not liked

·      I do much and am of little being

True, a lot of my effort was long to abet the above. No longer is that true. What is funny is that my actions have and do not change, I continue to deliver. Guide. Commit, take on, say “yes”. However, at the MUCH TO OLD age of 40 the effort-ing comes as a gratitude for all the trouble elbow grease has helped me get through. The conscious coping work and working has and does offer me.

Very honestly, I do not know how I would have survived this Spring if not for my business and glorious client community. There was no money in it, not at the beginning for sure. On the 16th of March, as my partner became instantaneously unemployed, I did what I could (mentally more than anything) to arm myself for losing my business. Don’t how well I did with that, but thankfully whatever armor I did contacting my clients and those pending and say just this:

“How can I help?” 

No doubt in my heart that I had and have a valuable service to offer. More essential as the rubble rained down upon before assumed normality. Before an intellectual exercise, now a visceral truism that value, my value, was tied not to finances or earning, but mailability and availability. These traumatic times, begun so bombastically only a few months ago, taught and teach me: I love working. Working keeps me honest and sane. And Goddamn thank you all for giving me the chance to do that, and possibly, just find it of value.

All well and good, inspiring even, accept … I am married. My better half could be not be, better. Fun, great looking, a better cook than I care to care about, great with animals and babies, well read, with musical taste don’t agree with, but do respect. He also makes me laugh not from jokes, but because he calls-it-like-it-is and is kinda a bitch. Like in the best, most drool way. Combine that with a “small town” how-to talent for nearly everything – he ain’t bad, for a dude that is….

Problem: His approach to career is very so-what. He lives for slow walks, rarely completes and anything, unless under extreme duress. Is meditative. Sleeps late. Has little care for “community” or mixing. Like to cuddle. Stay home. Go to bed early. Take his time. And “calling” that only applies to his aim for moral and equitable living, not a job, civic, or commercial engagement.

Make an impact? Nope. He aims to do better than getting by is all. Oh, and he LOVE when I am still, and that only happens when I am …. Well, recovering from surgery. 

This is a real monkey wrench in the martial mojo, no? Yes! My husband does not get it, respects me and is impressed, but he just can’t relate. At our best we accept each other- I maddened by his plodding; he by my pushing.  Mostly he misses me, and I feel lousy, and go ahead anyway. 

When I try the eagle eye view, I think that perhaps that fine man of mine feels the same regret of not matching me. That I am disappointed, and, in truth, I am a lot. I dream and dreamed of partner and productivity peer. Providence bred me a reminder of love on the half shell of life and insight. A relationship if not in tandem, then in teaching.

Two weeks ago: 

I am at a virtual craft and drink date with my Ma, a woman who worked 18 hours day until retirement. Once she got her “gold pen” she started her own practice, she is a therapist, to fill the time. Much of my professional metabolism I have to thank (or curse) her for, obviously.

To the Zoom Room I bring the sane whining I bring to this blog –

 What I wrong with me, Mommy? 

Nothing Sweety.

But I miss my work when I am not at it?! What about the taking of time folks always talk about? I can barely stand to take one day a week away, and I just miss my business the whole fucking time. (My Mom and chat shoot the shit like Gilmore Girl OGs)

You know what, Baby Bear?

What Mommy?

No one talks about women and career romance. They talk about embracing your career, but they never mean love it more. Other than you, I have always loved my job more than anything else, and I am fine. And you are great, Baby. (That may be not her EXACT words, but my Mom reads this and she can correct me on the flipside.)

What have we learned?

That Mom is right.

Love beyond judgement can apply to vocation as well as gender or whatever other social modality we want to lob on top of that convention.  What if your gig needs you to love it? What if the World needs that work you do? And what if you need it to love you too?

Sounds like a great kind Romance to me- ribbed business bodice and all…. 

PS:

Dear Mr. Bullock,

Sorry/Not Sorry and I’ll be home whenever I am tonight.

Love you too, Monkey