I can't f*ckin believe I have to go back to work tomorrow in that gdam velvety cage. Private office with picture window. Swanky office tower within global medical mecca. 64K (tho college loans are all up the yin-yang), plus eight weeks PTO, bangin health insurance, and a retirement fund that ensures that the velvety life will likely last long into the twilight before the grave.
For a public health worker like me, it's a frakkin boon. But it sux.
Let me put it another way: death by acronym, PA to a PI, work that appears super helpful on the outside but is bs and arrogance on the inside, those sort of folks who smile like a celebrity but the glare in their eye sez go away freaky person, a bureaucracy the likes of which I've never tried to survive before (and I worked for an urban school district so I know of what I speak).
Is any of this really true? Probably not. It's just my inner wild thing is APPALLED that we are where we are. The hippie chick is having an existential meltdown (again). The 10-year public health professional is so bored that the mind dulls to wet confetti. There are no fellow freaky people anywhere and my inner weirdo, my true default, misses my freaky people.
And all of hate us being in a closed box all day, breathing recycled, dry air, sitting, sitting, sitting (the standup desk they gave me is broken and no one will fix it and i tried really really hard but couldn't fix it myself so now it's just an annoying sit down desk that is ergonomically janked).
I could take a xanax, or any one of the half dozen such moody assistants that I've collected over the past decade from stints with western medicine. But that sort of stuff is only fun the first couple of times you take it. Then it just makes you tired, and what's the point in that?
I've discovered that I'm no longer really a shamanic practitioner. Only to the small handful of folks I feel to keep working with. Most I've faded away from, removing the auto booking from the website. Because I've moved beyond it somehow. Not in an arrogant I'm Too Good For This sort of way. More just witnessing that the gig is morphing into something else, something whose funding buoyancy is only now just coming into focus.
So the twenty year old me would have just walked out the door, taking a few souvenirs with me. The thirty year old would have stirred up all sorts of nonsense and drama. The forty year old me would have just taken it. But I'm 50, and so I go in every day as they ask me to, breathe in breathe out, yoga stretch at least a few times, try and be pleasant, even when someone is shrieking and shaking their finger in my face, and then come home to greenery and grainery and vinery and silky carnivores and a 60-lb. pitbull spoon-master named Woodrow.
And keep saying my prayers: thank you Life, for bringing me what I don't, yet again, understand, but know that you do, and that soon enough another majestic wave will come and carry us to the next port. Magic is here, I can feel it, and it's hilarious and as awe inspiring and perfect as ever. Thanks for the ride. Thanks for the love. Thanks for the cash. Thanks for the velvet.