What doesn't kill you…

…can still make a real mess out of your room.  Picture it, not at all Pinteresque or clean.  Every surface is covered with bits of wardrobe, casualties of my manic quest to piece together a faintly professional outfit.  We're not even talking interview material ― just 'presentable'.  Interview will be a whole different post.

I had a meeting a few weeks back with a helpful gentleman who looked over my résumé and offered some job hunting advice.  This was lovely of him.  And it is not his fault that I came away feeling bewildered, because that is where I live these days.  Among other questions, he asked, "If you cannot get any editing work or writing work or administrative work, what kind of job would you want instead?" and honestly, I don't know.  Banking?  Web Design?  Underwater Welding?

I imagine there are lots of jobs I am qualified to do (or, let's be honest, qualified to learn how to do), but it's hard to find them.  I spend hours searching, until I feel like I've clicked every link and visited every job site and Googled every keyword. 

 

This is it, I think blearily, I've reached the End of the Internet.

 

I struggle to find my footing here.  Few editing jobs call for less than four years experience, but I need work to get experience.  Someone told me that I should have more confidence in the way I present myself, but he didn't mean a general confidence in my ability to do a good job and figure things out.  Rather, this is supposed to be the sort of confidence that allows you to say, with emphasis, "These are the things I do, these are the good results I have produced, and this is the kind of job I want (complete with appropriate job title, i.e. Assistant Manager of Bowling Ball Juggling)."  But specifics also come from experience. 

I have been told to be careful "not to get myself locked into a bad cycle" and to "aim for jobs that will contribute to your long-term goals" and that "it's all about who you know: networking is key." 

Networking.  Cue the introverted paralysis.  I have extroversion in me, but put me in a room full of professional people and tell me to "go forth and network!", and my inner recluse will peer through the peephole and sadly inform you that Sarah is unavailable for duty, on account of being dead.

But I know that even when the internet ends, the people still have ideas.  So out the door I go.  I dress respectably (hence the wardrobe carnage) and attend a networking lunch.  I introduce myself and make conversation.  Don't get me wrong, it's not all paper cuts soaked in lemon juice.  For it to be all bad, the people would have to be all bad, and they're not.  Still, there is a lurking thought that the point of being here is to make contacts, which leaves me clammy and nervous and unlike myself.  It also skews the expectations.  Networking-on-purpose feels like a constant, unfocussed interview because each person wants to hear my elevator pitch.

Referring back, it's difficult to have an elevator pitch if you don't know exactly what job you're hoping for.  I attempt a pitch anyway.  I try to be confident, but stop short of lying; to be polished, but conversational ― and it's not impressive.  I finish my best effort…....

Man I am Talking To: "One thing you might consider doing is composing a short description of the work you've done and the kind of job you want; have you ever heard of an elevator pitch?"
 

Oh dear.  Wasn't that what I just gave you?  Apparently not.  Okay, okay, Sarah, no time for self-recrimination ― time to roll with it.

Me: (ruefully) "Yes, I have!  It would seem I … don't have one."

Him: (agreeing seriously)  "No, you don't."

Rimshot.  Fair enough.

 

 

Fortunately, as I'm about to leave in disgrace, my networking reputation is salvaged:

A man, who is older than my father, asks me out.  On a date.

 

I am no closer to having a job,

but it would seem the outfit is a winner. 

Or something.

Score.

What is the take-home lesson here?  Surely there is something redeeming to pull out of the awkward!  I need a moral, and I need it now before this blog post gets too long.
 

How about:

Tomorrow is always fresh, with no mistakes in it. 

There's more than one way to skin a cat. 

Prayer is always a good idea. 

A life lived in fear is a life half-lived. 

Platitudes are trying to the soul. 

And hopefully, what doesn't kill you…

…makes you stronger.

 

Alone Time

As counterintuitive as it seems to girl whose life has always been blessedly abuzz with people, sometimes it's good to be alone.

Last Wednesday I made some hasty, eleventh-hour plans to join friends for a movie.  These plans were all the more spotty because they had been made without due consideration for the particular complexities of big city theaters, such as parking, tickets, and being able to get in the doors on bargain-ticket-night (the latter I didn't even attempt). 

The good news?  There will be other nights to join friends for a movie.  The momentary bad news?  I was all dressed up with nowhere to go.  And my first thought was, I guess I'm going home.

Followed by this revolutionary notion:

…or……..I could just not do that.

 

 

So I took myself out on a date.  I picked another theater, with plenty of time before my showing.  It was a beautiful night and I walked around the park, watching kids play in the water jets and couples snog on benches.  I drank a cup of cocoa in a glass coffee shop, and I didn't pull out my phone to text or check Facebook.  I let my mind wander, which it needed, because it's had a lot to do lately. 

I haven't had many pauses  to consider if I'm changing in the right direction.

You see, sometimes I wonder if on this steep learning curve of new city, new church, new friends, new work, new worries I'll come out the other end and be… not myself.  I don't mind the thought of improving, but I want to still be me.  I've always been an optimist; I've always been able to fall asleep easily; I've never had much trouble setting aside a negative in favor of a positive.  I feel like these parts of me are slipping ― certainly, I'm writing this at 2am, so the sleep thing is definitely on the skids. 

This process of sorting out how much of me is 'me', and how much of me has been my surroundings or my old habits or my family will take time.

And I think it may take more being alone.

God didn't give me any blinding answers to my questions tonight (though I did catch a hint of, "Lean harder, Sarah.  I'm here."), but just letting it be quiet for a while… that helped.

Plus, there's this:

I left my movie at midnight.  Rain had come and gone while I was inside, leaving behind only petrichor and reflective puddles.  And when I crossed the deserted crosswalk, I realized I still bounce when I walk.

It's a doofy quirk, but one I like. 

It's nice to know it's still in there.

Lost in Transit

 

 

And now a spot of DC Metro humor.

This morning's conductor must have been new. Or hung over. We'll say new.

*click* “Um.... coming up on... Falls Church.” *click*
pause while passengers ponder: which one?
*click* “....er, West.” *click*

He periodically added helpful instructions, confusing himself further:
*click* "Ladies and gentleman, doors open on..." pause *click*...
*click* "your left please keep clear of the doors thank you." *click*
*click* "Oh, uh, next station Ballston." *click*
*click* "Thank you." *click*

Then we rolled into Clarendon twice. The first time he was confident, and wrong:
*click* “NextstopClarendon, doorsopenonyourright.” *click*
...but after sheepishly departing Virginia Square, he was less sure:
*click* “.........next stop... uh, Clarendon...?” *click*

Happily, he was right that time. 

Hopefully his second day goes better. 

Or he sobers up.

Food That Makes Me Happy

I had this crazy idea that it would be easy to resist eating out in DC.  Yeah, go ahead, laugh it up.  I rarely did it back home!  Ah, but that was then. 

Seriously, it's fantastic!  And I'm going to temporarily set aside the clear and present danger to my wallet and just talk about my new favorite eats and drinks.

Chipotle

This is where I'm taking you if you come to visit me.  It's like Subway, only with burritos or rice bowls, and it's completely addicting.  You have to order fast, which is a common denominator in all my city dining experiences thus far.  But it's cheap, since there's no wait staff, and even cheaper if you split a single bowl with your sister.  Best dining spot so far: sitting on a rock wall in the Mosaic District with Chloe.

Cava Mezze Grill  

A friend took me here for lunch, and it's a lot like Chipotle, only with Mediterranean food.  I got rice, chicken, tzatziki, kalamata olives, tomato and cucumbers, and a few other things.  It was delicious, but next time I'll be more daring.

Starbucks

I'm not sure where 'liking Starbucks' fits into the current trend structure.  Does it make me clichéd, classy, an indie poser, a true cosmopolitan, an enemy of good coffee, a connoisseur…?  Oh well.  I still like it.  And my sister gave me a gift card, which I am hoarding like a nugget of potential happiness in my purse.  Fortunately, you can't swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a round green Siren logo.

Silver Diner 

Read the sign and you're 80% there, except you're assuming grease and starch, and you can stop that right now.  Only fresh and homegrown ingredients in homey, tasty combinations.  Mommy and Daddy took us here for Sunday Brunch before they headed back to North Carolina.  I got cranberry pancakes and nearly proposed on the spot.  Silver Diner has personal jukeboxes at the tables so you could request favorite tunes for the overhead stereo ― I think we picked something by the Beach Boys, but it was so noisy, we never could tell if it played.

Artie's

In tone, Artie's reminds me of Fatz Café, only less 'southern comfort' and more 'elegant boathouse'.  Chloe let me try her salmon (which is also her dish of choice at Coastal Flats), and I had chicken with some amazing sauce.  Our waiter totally nailed the menu run-down, except he botched one of the specials ― and was dramatically relieved when no one ordered it.  I like such restaurants, because I feel classy and metropolitan, but I still get enough food to eat.

Coastal Flats 

A favorite from previous trips to DC, and it turns out Artie's is produced (is that even the word?) by the same company!  You can tell.  If Artie's is the mature, yacht-racing oldest son, then Coastal Flats is like the noisy, beach-bum little brother.  If you ever go, get the Grouper Fingers.  …I promise they're delicious, and not as weird as they sound.

Gordon Biersch 

Last, but certainly not least: the Harvest hang-out of choice!  Every Sunday night after my young-adults group at church lets out, anyone who still wants to visit goes to Biersch.  Usually people get light fare and beer, and I have to resist the urge to rest my forehead on the edge of my table and laugh: I am so not living in a Baptist town anymore.   Alas, I continue to be a lightweight and Biersch is too solidly German to pull half pints, so I'm sticking with raspberry lemonade.  Mock at your leisure.  It's fun to meet new people and hear their stories, but it's also fun to just sit in the midst of it all and enjoy the warmth.

Now I just have to make myself live within my means ― the sheer tastiness and variety of options are not a good excuse to dine myself out of my gas and grocery budget. 

So come visit me sometime! That will be an excellent excuse.

Poetical Interlude

hopeless to hide

did I think that he who made me, who saved me, who walks with me would not see me?

did I think the view from my heart's temple was so limited?

poor unswept place though it be, I invited him in

did I not think he came?

hopeless to play the lesser Eve and suggest that he is unaware

that he needs telling

I sinned

again.

and he knows.

and it hurts that he knows because I begged and I wept and I tried and he loved and he forgave

and if I sin

again

is it cheapened?

lessened?

can he really mean to forgive me again?

well.

he said he would.

I don't want this pattern of sin sin sin and sin again.

I hate it from the core of my being, with every fiber of my will

(and it must be my will, for my nature craves it ― does not want to relinquish forbidden fruits)

but forgiveness

this other half of the pattern

that

I cannot live without.

and if I know that he sees my every sin

and that there can be no concealment and no escape

then what am I hiding from in the end?

what part of the pattern is evaded?

only the forgiveness

and the peace

and the hope that this time

there will be victory

and who would hide from hope?

well, me.

but no more.

so, Lord, it's me again…

Sisterly Dependence

{photo credit: Chloe}

I have eight sisters.  I like them all.  I'll leave you to ponder the unlikelihood of both those statements while I ponder the fix I'm in.  See, I have become accustomed to having a sister on hand for every need and whim!  Any more-than-one-person gig... trip to the mall, catch a movie, post-work decompression...  Check. 

Seriously, name a need: new music, coffee, advice, dance partner, driver, food, fashion consult (or loan), sounding board, new tv show, spiritual insight, dating tips, sofa cuddle, a good brick joke…  Sisters have become my one-stop shopping.

There's a whole list of things I just don't own, or have never done for myself.  When I say, "I have eclectic taste in music", it's not a legit bragging point.  I have sisters with eclectic taste in music.  Thanks to them, I listen to everything from One Republic and Journey to Abney Park and Finnish symphonic metal.  My one contribution?  Alexi Murdock.  Seriously.  And only because I watched Away We Go and the first three episodes of Stargate Universe, and no one else did.

I never brewed my own coffee with any regularity.  I don't own several of my favorite books.  I have this pressing need to verbally relay everything I've done in a day and get feedback, as if not telling someone means it didn't happen.

I shouldn't gripe too loud ― I have Chloe again!  This has been indescribably awesome.  I have two old and dear friends in the area as well, and I can already see them raising their hands with suggestions.  I'm making new friends.  But I can't saddle Chloe with everything on this list; my dependence has only worked so far because, with so many shoulders, the burden had room to spread out.  Lay it all on one sister?  Yeah, no good.  And life is a busy, giddy thing for us all, including oldest and bestest friends.  It's only now I realize how much difference the 'living in the same house' part made.  And new friends are still new.  I don't know where I fit, or who might be up for a movie or a hunt for the perfect skinny jeans.

So how do I fix this?  Does this ever get fixed?

I need a solution or a coping mechanism or a sobering slap in the face, and fast. 

Because I want someone to go to the Glen Echo contra dance with me. 

And I don't know where the good music hangs out. 

And this coffee tastes terrible.

 

I miss my girls.

 

Small Fish, Big Pond

Here's the thing about moving to Washington DC: I am no longer as fashionable or as accomplished or as thin or as smart as I used to be.  You're waiting for the punch-line, but it's true.  Somewhere between the Smoky Mountains and the Washington Monument, I got stupider. 

It's unnerving.

And it's a little humiliating to admit to myself how much stock I put in those things.  My home town is small.  The people are friendly and laid back: everything you think of when you hear the word 'Southern', only with a special twang that comes from the mountains alone.  They are lovely, and I miss them.  But again, it's a small town, and it turns out that means that a very little flash shines a long way.

I've been told back home that I am brilliant and a cut above the rest; that I am classy and I stand out; that I am witty and articulate and creative.  In short, that I would arrive at my destination and everything would fall together at my feet because ― how could it not?  I would always respond with appropriate humility, but it's only now that I realize how much I looked around, sized up my competition, and agreed with the praise.  "My goodness, yes, look at the shininess of me!"

There's a whole post to be written here about how "those who compare themselves among themselves are not wise", but not right now.  Today the struggle is not with a false modesty, but with honest ego.  Be careful how you perch, little bird, because here comes the bump.

Within my first week, I stood on the outer edges of at least three different conversations that I could barely follow; certainly I couldn't offer any contribution.  Politics and religion and the economy, subjects in which I considered myself reasonably proficient, all herded together and cheerfully bucked me off.   

I glance surreptitiously at city girls on the metro and am amazed by their easy fashion sense ― I can't even figure out what the pieces are, only that the whole looks fabulous. 

My pride in my vocabulary and ability to communicate falters in the face of practiced diction and professional clarity ― and as much as I love complex words, too often I can't lay my brain on the one I want.  Even more embarrassingly: all synonyms elude me.

I arrive reveling in my own ambition and nerve, and within days it is so clear: this is the city that lives and breathes ambition.  It draws talent and beauty and brilliance to itself like filings to a magnet.   For everything I do, there is someone else in easy reach who does it better ― outstripping me without apparent effort.  My ego gives a faint cough and succumbs to the inevitable.  I'm still me, but plainer and simpler and more ordinary than I ever used to think.

So here I sit, and I ask God with dazed curiosity and wounded pride, "What do you want me for?  I'm not half so useful to you here as I was back home.  Then, I had all these things to offer, and look at me now…"

And He answers me, with a gentle chuckle, "My beloved girl, why do you think I brought you here?  There's no room for me in a life that you already consider to be full.  I cannot give you gifts when you don't know what you're lacking.  I can't direct you when you think you know where you're going.  What use is a superior intellect or stunning creativity or arresting beauty if the heart doesn't have me at the center?  I notice I'm hearing from you a lot more these days.  You are beautiful because I made you; creative because I inspire you; worthwhile because I love you.  Remember when I said I used the weak things and the foolish things and the base things to do my work in this world?  Now go, my daughter: be full of grace, embrace your gifts, and be useful."

I have been created to be me, and to live my life.  My Creator gave me everything I need to do that and be that.  I can and should strive to improve, but my sense of success cannot be based on how I compare to those around me, or it will never be enough.  I'm not God's gift to mankind, Someone else was. 

And that, as my old pastor used to say, is why we call it Good News.