In Which "Success" Is A Four-Letter Word

If "schadenfreude" is the word for the wonderful happy feeling you get when something bad happens to someone else, what is the term for when someone else's happiness makes you feel like shit?

I was on the second leg of my two-bus commute to work yesterday afternoon, reading a magazine, when I noticed the article I was perusing was written by someone with whom I had graduated from college. We had been somewhat-friends when we were freshmen, until this person did something which I had considered tantamount to a betrayal of my trust. Ever since, though I was always cordial in their presence, I never again entertained any sort of fondness for them. Fast forward five years: we are a year out of college, I am on my way to my part-time job, and what do I see but a definite indication of this person's success?

My initial reaction, of course was, "Fuck. We're one year out of college, and this person is writing for a nationally-acclaimed and highly respected magazine, while I'm nowhere closer to even having an idea of what I want to do with my life." That feeling, I can tell you, is a day-ruiner. But I knew it was my primitive brain talking (my primitive brain is prone to swearing) and soon my intellectual brain kicked in: how, it rationalized, can I even compare my own success with this person's, when our goals are so drastically different? I may not be entirely sure what, exactly, my life goal is, but journalism it is not. I ruled that one out a long time ago. The comparison, therefore, is illogical.

As the day went on, I was eventually able to kick that initial feeling of crappiness and align myself with my intellectual brain's argument. But the truth is that success is so much easier to measure in other people than in oneself. Others may sweat and toil to achieve their goals, but if they do, their peers rarely see it. It is assumed that success is merely handed to them, while we ourselves, like so many Sisyphuses, continue to struggle with no end in sight. In a way, my primitive brain, in its crazy outburst of emotion, made some kind of sense.

I'd like to say that I've learned my lesson and I will never compare myself to other people again and I will live happily ever after, the end. But that's not true. Even when (and if) I do reach my goal - whatever that goal may be - I'll probably still compare my success to others', because that's part of the human condition, the pain of progress. So the grass will continue to be greener in someone else's yard. What I can hope for, though, is that I'll be able to see that mine is plenty green enough.

In Which Fortune Favors The Bold

For my birthday last month my roommates, Rachel and Kenny, took me to The Comedy Studio in Cambridge. Hidden on the third floor of a Chinese restaurant, The Comedy Studio doesn't do any traditional advertising, preferring the word-of-mouth method; hence, I had never heard of it. I enjoyed the show and the experience so thoroughly that I actually caught myself thinking, during it, that I had to somehow be a part of it.

My first foray into the Boston comedy scene was less than successful, involving more plumbing and heavy lifting than actually comedy, but I was so inspired by the show at The Comedy Studio that I wanted to give it another try. I decided right then and there to go up to the owner afterwards and ask for a job. When I told Kenny my plan, he suggested I come back on a Wednesday, the night when they audition new talent (and when the audiences are naturally more sparse than the bustling Saturday-night crowd) and try my luck then.

Every Wednesday for about a month, I found an excuse not to go: I was too tired from work, it would take too long to get there, etc. Finally, a week and a half ago, I bit the bullet and decided if I didn't do it that Wednesday, I wouldn't do it at all. Fueling me was the fact that I had nothing to lose. So, armed with a resume and a peanut butter sandwich to eat on the train between work and Cambridge, I set out.

The show itself was alright. Some of the comedians were better than others. The audience, unfortunately, was terrible. I really felt for the performers. With the post-show music still blaring and audience members hanging around finishing their drinks, I realized I would have to wait until everyone cleared out till I could speak with the owner, and that's when I almost chickened out. But I knew I would regret not waiting.

When everyone had finally left and the music was turned off, I went up to the owner. After what I determined to be an appropriate amount of small talk regarding how the show had gone that evening, I went for it.

"I like this place," I told the owner. "This is my second time here, and I like the way you do things." I was quick to add, "And I'm not just saying that to flatter you; I don't think you need the flattery."

"Of course," he agreed.

"And I want to work for you," I blurted out. There was a beat, and I couldn't tell from his expression what he was thinking.

"In what capacity?" he asked slowly. "Do you do stand-up?"

"No," I quickly assured him. "I think when I grow up [Note: I actually said "when I grow up"] I want to be a producer, and I want to somehow work in comedy. I think I want to do what you do."

He looked at me. "Well," he said, "we can start you off working the door, then we can see where things go from there. When can you start?"

On the T ride to Cambridge, I had anticipated every possible scenario, worked out how I would cope with any sort of rejection he could possibly give me. But it hadn't crossed my mind that he would actually give me a job on the spot, and when it happened, it seemed too easy. When I got home and told Kenny, he suggested that maybe I had made an impression on the owner by putting myself out there, which seems likely. But still too easy. I had risked all (or nothing, depending on how you look at it) - and actually won.

In Which Our Days Are Numbered

I recently found this t-shirt design, which immediately caught my fancy:


I would have worn it proudly circa 2006. However, since I am no longer a college student, and can thus no longer really be "defined" by my course of study, the point would be moot.

I have always had a poor relationship with numbers. Though I was a good student in general, I could never bring myself to pay attention during math lessons in elementary school. I paid dearly for it in middle and high school, when my lack of simple mathematical knowledge really hurt me. I always had the suspicion that despite what my teachers said, I wouldn't really have to use the math they taught me in day-to-day life. And I was right. Even so, numbers are still there. I got to thinking about the numbers in my life, and this is what I came up with.*

6 The number of Dunkin' Donuts I pass on my way to work. One of the first things I noticed when I came to Boston for college was that people here love Dunkin' Donuts. No, love isn't the right word. They worship Dunkin' Donuts. They kneel at its alters, which are, luckily, conveniently located mere blocks away from one another. There is literally nowhere you can go here without running into those familiar pink and orange stripes. Not that I'm complaining; their vanilla chai lattes are pretty good (I don't drink coffee). But where I grew up, I knew of only one Dunkin' Donuts. Yet somehow, we were able to manage. And vote Democrat in the recent presidential election. Maybe you heard about it.

9 The (approximate) number of scheduled hours of TV I watch per week. I've mentioned before that I watch a lot of TV. And 9 is just the number of scheduled hours I watch: I have shows I watch every night of the week except Friday and Saturday. I didn't plan it; it just worked out that way.

2 The number of dates I've been on in the past 6 months. Both nice guys; neither worked out. I'm over it.

2 The number of free drinks I've gotten in the past 6 months (see above).

4 The number of days I've spent at home (i.e., Cleveland) in the past 6 months. In some ways that's not enough, in others it is. Of course I enjoy visiting with my father and my dog (the only ones who live there now, as my siblings are both in college). But my dad is in the process of selling our house, an action which is somewhat painful to me, it being the only house my family has ever lived in. When my parents bought it in the mid '80s, it was carpeted in this admittedly hideous brown shag carpeting, which remained there until a few months ago (it wasn't really a selling point). When I visited in July, some very nice looking wood floors (which had been under the carpet the whole time!) greeted me. And while I have nothing against wood floors, it just wasn't the same. Hence my aversion. Like so many important things in my life that have been taken away from me or left me, it is easier to pretend it never existed than to face the pain of its loss.

3 The number of times I have read my favorite novel (Vanity Fair). I mention it because I am about a third of the way through reading number 4 right now. Some people are spoken to by music, or art, or politics, or any number of things that can capture the human imagination. This book is what speaks to me. If I could make a living of trying to understand it, I would. I could talk about it endlessly if I could find someone who would listen. Every time I read it, the story, the characters, the moral are the same as the time before. And yet it never tires me, and there is always something more to learn from it or about it. If only more things in life were like that.




*That was a long and overly-elaborate segue into what I really wanted to write about. I hope you enjoyed it.

In Which Money Is The Root Of All Evil

As if on cue, my father had a new question for me when I spoke to him a few days ago:

"How's your job search coming?"

I should explain that I get along really well with my father, and that I value and respect his opinion. But he apparently has this notion that now that I am "bringing in some money," I should be looking for a full-time job, the goal of which I assume would be to bring in more money. And the matter-of-fact way in which he posed the question, as if to get a job so I could be working while looking for a better job should have been part of my plan from the beginning, quite frankly annoyed me.

There was a commercial on a while back (I can't remember what for) which said something to the effect of "We know you don't just work for money." It showed pictures of kids running into their father's arms and other hokey visuals to explain why people go to work each day. At the time, I thought it made no sense. Of course people work for money. Money is why people work. But the more time I spend at my job (I've been there about a month and a half now) the more I am beginning to understand the meaning of the commercial better: while I do work for money, I wouldn't do just anything to get it. If I sat in an office eight hours a day staring at a computer screen, I might make more money. But I would absolutely hate going to work every morning. If you're lucky, you go to work because you enjoy what you do, not just to fill in the time between bill payments.

Right now I am enjoying what I'm doing. My current job is not part of my career goal (which veers, in fact, in a totally different direction from where I am now), but I like it for what it is and I'm happy there. And if I can spend some time there while planning for my next move - the one into an actual career - why shouldn't I? While it grieves me to be at odds with my father, it would grieve me even more to be at odds with myself.

In Which Things Happen

I was on the phone with my dad the other day. I haven't seen him for awhile, not since I went home in July for a weekend visit. I'm used to going months at a time without seeing him (or anyone in my immediate family, for that matter) because of the distance. He's never been to my apartment. He hasn't seen where I work. In short, he doesn't really know much at all about this new post-college life I'm starting to make for myself. Which is I guess what prompted the question he asked me:

"What do you do?"

I was a little taken aback, and I didn't know quite how to answer. I think what he meant was what do I do in my free time, but it got me to thinking: without classes, homework and extracurriculars - the essentials of my life for 17 years - with what activities do I fill my days?

The answer:

I wake up. I take a shower. I check my e-mail, Facebook and MSNBC.com. I eat brunch. I commute an hour to work. [Side note: I find it funny that I live in the city and work in the suburbs. For some reason that amuses me.] I work a job I like (thankfully) with people I like (also thankfully). I take the bus and T home. I make and eat dinner. I divide the rest of the night between putzing around on the computer and watching TV. (A lot of TV - probably more than any human being should ever be exposed to. In fact, I'm convinced that my roommate and I are the ones keeping the producers of those awful VH1 reality shows in a job. Whatever we can do to help the economy).

On Saturdays I grocery shop and on Sundays I do laundry or return library books, whichever needs doing. I spend weekend nights with friends or family, or sometimes just at home.

And that's it. It's a repetitive lifestyle, and much more quiet than what I am accustomed to, especially after the past four years, when there were weeks at a time where I would barely have a moment to breathe. Despite the monotony, though, I find that I like it. I thrive on a schedule, and if doing the same things at the same times day after day isn't the definition of a schedule, I don't know what is. For now, it suits me. And besides, who would want a life where checking ICanHasCheezburger.com wasn't part of the daily routine? Not I.

I look at this every day.