Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Wherever there is change, routine will soon fill the space left in its wake. This is a theorem I submit to you, in a late-night bid to further the poorly researched field of pseudoscience, and I can confidently tell you I’ve been published. That’s mainly because I pressed the “publish” button in WordPress, not more than a second ago, and added to my growing body of work. Alternatively, “I maek poast,” as they say in the social media biz.

In the last week-and-a-half, I’ve been seeking out a new rhythm with the Professor. Gone are the predictable comforts of a standing office, a commute, a preordained lunch time, and all the familiar contours of a normal workday. We exist instead in a kind of limbo, between time zones, states, and pockets of free wi-fi. Our last two mornings have begun with our very best simulation of tennis, followed by decampment at the public library, and capped off with a few hours at a coffeehouse. This may be the norm for the next month or so, but I’m already looking forward to my mental milestones. It’s like I’m shooting a flare gun into the future and illuminating those faraway moments–stepping into our temporary space in Dallas, or taking that first rest stop on my road trip there, or dropping off my last auctioned item at the UPS Store–when I’ll be able to take a breather and say, “I made it.”

And since we’re on the topic, eBay selling has restarted in earnest. I put a receiver up last night, and after an hour or two of taking pictures and tweaking the listing, I’m almost certain the second tour of duty is going to be brutal. I remember listening to Seinfeld hold forth on the subject of eBay once, and he described it as a kind of marketplace in which people exchange trash. It’s true, in a sense, but I’m also looking for something far more precious in the auction house: freedom from all this shit I’ve accumulated, one bid at a time.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Two nights ago, deep in the north side of Chicago, I got carded at an Irish pub. The drink itself, a John Daly, seemed benign enough to avoid scrutiny. Maybe I was having a good hair day, or maybe the room was just too dark, or maybe the server was suffering from a sudden onset of glaucoma. Whatever the real reason may have been, it was the perfect proxy for the trip as a whole–the clock had suddenly, improbably turned back, and I was young again.

This shouldn’t have been surprising at all, I suppose. Technically, I’m the most junior member on the team, both in age and experience. The former is easily addressed. I need only look at the date on my driver’s license to remember that, yes, I’m an adult. It’s the second thing–experience–that’s been particularly challenging. There have been moments, in the past few days, when I’ve employed every trick in my bag, only to find myself barely holding on.

Starting over kinda sucks, plain and simple. You round a bend in your career path and find the slate wiped clean–bank drained of personal equity, a sharp ache to put one on the board, eyes straining for a glimpse of a faraway oasis. To be perfectly honest, though, I don’t know if I’d want to reach that oasis. I know I wouldn’t be content with just cruising. When I used to be musically inclined, I had a rule. Any orchestra that would deposit me in the 1^st violin section would warrant skepticism. This wasn’t false modesty. It was an honest appraisal of my skill. I knew my limits, and I was happiest when I tried my hardest and found myself in the 2^nd violins. That’s what I used to say, anyhow. Now, I just need to believe it.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Secondhand Rants will return on Thursday, September 12.