Every morning, the alarm – sometimes set in vain, sometimes forgotton to be set at all – never rings. The clock would only ever go off in my imagination because really now, I never sleep all the way through the night. I never even give my alarm clock a chance. Hours before any other normal person would wake to a noxious beeping, I explode out of the last traces of an always restless slumber. Wild-eyed and confused under a blindfold, I am the picture of insanity, fighting, but failing, to escape the jacket.
Only in my nightmare was I mistaken for a lunatic, captured, wrapped and strapped in asylum white. Awake now. Sitting bolt upright. I have to unravel myself from pristine white way-too-expensive 800-thread-count sheets that were twisted into chains. No blindfold, but I’m doing it blindly. Always, it’s dark in the pre-dawn. Almost always, I fell asleep against my blogging will so eyes are coated with mucus and contact lenses are glued, like yesterday’s steamed white rice in the unwashed cooker, to the inside of my upper eyelids.
In other words, I can’t see a fucking a thing.
“Baby, they’ve been waiting for you.”
Almost every morning, I say it – sometimes out loud, sometimes whispered inside my head – “Baby, they’ve been waiting for you.” I do. I don’t know who “they” are, nor do I have a real sense of why I would say this, but at the very least I do know that “Baby” refers to me.
Yes, I call myself “Baby.”
Yes, Baby, I know I’m crazy.
It’s what I’ve been saying for a while now. A way to pump myself up. Psyche myself into excitement. Internally cheer for myself with that little boost of confidence that doesn’t really exist. I knew that at some point in my life, maybe not by the time I graduated college, maybe not by the age of 30, but at some point, I would be able to tell myself that the world has been waiting for me.
For the past year, I mistook “they” for a job that toward the end, was killing my soul. I was grateful when the opportunity first arose a year ago. I was intrigued by the concept, then fell in love with the promise of revolutionizing the world. The bitter MBA I thought I had neatly tucked away in my past was unfolding to reveal a future career so perfect that I thought it couldn’t possibly exist. It existed as marketing on the social web. “Baby,” I told myself, “they – this concept, this dynamic company, this perfect job – they have been waiting for you to come and change the world (wide web).” I blindly gave my entire life to it, saving only a tiny corner for the personal passions that without which, I would die.
Perhaps things were not what they seemed. Maybe it was just the natural evolution of a job. The beauty of my work was decomposing into a fetid mess, an unnatural mix of extraordinary performance pressure, personal (or rather, personnel) drama, and boredom. I had no joy.
Yet, I couldn’t let go. I knew I was unhappy. I could feel the stress breaking me, but something inside wouldn’t let me walk away. Many nights, I would leave the office close to midnight, trying to identify the internal force that was so strong it could stand up to friends and family who were encouraging me to move on, so powerful that it wouldn’t dissolve in a flood of tears. It wasn’t money. It wasn’t personal relationships. It wasn’t even pride.
I had actually known all along, but didn’t want to admit it.
It was fear.
One of the most powerful motivating factors in life is fear, and though I wanted to believe that I was always motivated by more positive things, somewhere I had opened up my life to fear and allowed it to wrap its ugly barbed tentacles around my soul. Fear squeezed my soul until all the peace bled out of it, leaving nothing but a hollow box that echoed with pessimism.
What if I never find a job with this kind of (non)commute, pseudo-flexibility and perceived benefits?
What if I don’t even find another job?
What if I can’t afford my rent?
What if I can’t afford anything?
What if my family is disappointed?
“What if…?” beat my passion down into an unidentifiable pulp.
I was afraid of uncertain future. Not knowing Tomorrow gave me laser-focus on the security of the job I had RightNow.
Some time in the Spring – I don’t know how or why – whatever blindfold of fear that I had pulled tight across my plastic surgically enhanced eyes momentarily slipped off. I broke free. Almost. I almost rescued what was left of a soul that had shriveled into a vodka-soaked pickle. “They” reacted quickly to my attempted escape, though, and upwardly heaved armfuls of money in my direction. The money fell like a blinding snowstorm, and when the air finally settled, I let two little dollar signs staple both eyes closed. Again, I was fettered to my laptop, imprisoned in darkness the radius of a wi-fi connection, furiously fighting to keep up with work that was coming at me at the speed of the Internet.
My eyes were closed so I wouldn’t have to look at myself, at what I had let myself become, but they weren’t closed so tightly that they didn’t let fall a tear or two. Or three. All through the summer and into autumn, I was re-living that scenario in the first paragraph every morning.
This past week I finally admitted to myself out loud what I tried to keep silent under a weak shell of “success.” Though I knew the industry inside and out, though I knew our product would be the one to breakthrough, though I knew the function in which I was working was the perfect 100% utilization of my natural talent, education, and passion, I knew I was in the wrong place. I didn’t belong.
They weren’t the “they” who have been waiting for me.
I gave notice on Friday.
I don’t have another perfectly MBA-meets-social-web job lined up; I don’t even have a job search in process. The future is quite uncertain. It made “notice” one of the hardest and scariest things I’ve had to do in a very long time.
It was also one of the most invigorating.
After the work day ended, I drove the long way home along the ocean. I couldn’t see the water in the winter’s early darkness, but I knew it was there. I got home, toasted myself with a congratulatory glass of Champagne that was already chilling in the refrigerator, spent four long-overdue hours in the kitchen braising short ribs, researched recipes, flipped through fashion magazines, and blogged my j
oyful little heart out.
“Baby, they’ve been waiting for you.”
And yes, I’m finally…here.
Galbee Jjim Recipe (Korean Braised Shortribs)
The braising liquid is basically the same thing as the marinade for galbee, but in slightly different proportions. Some people use sugar in the braising liquid, but I rely on the slight sweetness from the vegetables and candied ginger.
Pour yourself a glass of Champagne (you can have more later) and turn on Timbaland‘s The Way I Are.
Trim fat from 5 lbs. beef short ribs and rinse under cold water. Score the thickest parts of the meat with criss-crosses.
In a large pot over medium-high heat, sear each rib on all sides. Place all the seared ribs in the bottom of the pot and fill pot with cold water to just cover the ribs. Bring the ribs and water to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for about 30-45 minutes.
In a small bowl, combine ½ c soy sauce, ¼ c sesame oil, 2 Tbsp rice vinegar, and 1 tsp black pepper. Add to pots with ribs, along with 3-4 peeled carrots cut into 2″ pieces, 8-10 small red potatoes washed and halved, 8-10 peeled pearl onions, 5-6 whole peeled cloves garlic, and 4-5 pieces of candied ginger.
Simmer everything for about another hour, or until the meat is tender, checking on the pot, stirring and spooning the braising liquid over the top every once in a while.
tags :: food : and drink : cooking : korean : recipes : los angeles
