The Quality of Human Life

No particularly deep thoughts from me today, but a snippet I would like to share from - you guessed it - The New York Times.  The article, from the Fashion & Style section, is mostly about "Mad Men" (I'm still on the fence about that show) but uses the series and its delightfully wicked behaviour to make a broader point.

Instead of paltry paraphrase, I give you the original:

Of course people still have hangovers and affairs, but what dominates the wholesome vista is a sense that everything we do should be productive, should be moving toward a sane and balanced end. The idea that you would do something just for the momentary blissful escape of it, for intensity, for strong feeling, is out of fashion.

When we talk about the three-martini lunch these days it is with contempt, with a pleasurable thrill of superiority. [...]“How did anyone get any work done?” someone will invariably ask. But maybe that’s the wrong question, or maybe the kind of work they got done was a different kind of work, or maybe that’s not the highest and holiest standard to which we can hold the quality of human life.

You can see why it resonated with me now, can't you.

Alright.  I'm done with my inflammatory, revolutionary proselytizing.  You can go back and cuddle your BlackBerries.

Les vacances

The following conversation takes place mid-morning, on a weekday.  The sun is making its way through the clouds.  Tourists are heaving their backpacks around the cobbled streets of Paris.  Res, a very young-looking thirty-something, is walking towards home carrying a large pot of paint and new underwear, uncovered in the final day of the sales.  She is the only French person about - all other Parisians still in the city at the end of July are safely tucked inside their offices.

Res' phone rings.  It is her very good, equally over-educated, unemployed friend.  Let's call her Mona.

Mona: "Hi!  What are you up to this week?"
Res: "Painting the new flat.  It's hard work."
Mona: "Sounds like it.  Should we have cocktails tomorrow afternoon?"
Res: "God yes, I'm exhausted.  I really could use a drink."
Mona: "Any news on the job front?"
Res: "Nope.  Still waiting to hear back about interviews.  Refreshing my email fifteen times an hour.  Checking my phone's batteries.  Harassing recruiters.  That sort of thing.  You?"
Mona: "Same.  The problem is, everyone's on vacation."
Res: [Long, drawn-out sigh]
Mona: "I think I need to go on vacation."
Res: "Mmmm."
Mona: "You know, we're entitled to five weeks a year."
Res: "Five weeks a year of what?"
Mona: "Of vacation."
Res: [stops walking, cocks head to the left] "I don't understand."
Mona: "We're entitled to five weeks a year of vacation."
Res: "But we're unemployed."
Mona: "It's the law, apparently."
Res: "It's the law that we're entitled to vacation?"
Mona: "Yes."
Res: [puts heavy bucket of paint down to scratch her head] "But aren't we always on vacation?"
Mona: "Well -"
Res: "I mean, isn't that sort of the definition of unemployment? Not having to go to work?"
Mona: "But during five weeks a year we're allowed to not think about looking for a job."
Res: "We're allowed to not think about looking for a job?"
Mona: "Yes."
Res: "So you're going to take a week off and not think about looking for a job?"
Mona: "That's right.  I'm not going to think about it for a whole week."
Res: "Huh."
Mona: "We're entitled to it."
Res: "Right."  [pause]  "Do you know if unpublished writers are also entitled to five weeks of not thinking about writing?"

Be afraid...

I've been quite tired lately. And no, it's not because I'm up all night rewriting Carrie.

It all started a few days ago.

On that fine day, I woke up in the guest bed in my parents' house and my reality-meter kicked in. Mine is hardly a sustainable lifestyle. I am 32 years old, I live with mom and dad in the suburbs, and my shopping habit is being fed by handouts from the unemployment agency. (And I take this opportunity to thank everyone who pays, or has ever paid, French taxes. Much appreciated.) Moreover, my novel (all 30% of it) is probably terrible. Even if it's amazing, no one else might think so (which would probably mean it's terrible after all). And even if other people do think it's amazing, it's likely to take years for anyone to pay me any kind of money for it.

So, I bit the bullet. That's right folks. I applied for a job. A legal job. In a big, scary company. A legal job that is in fact, freakishly perfect for me. Which means I may even get it.

And that's where my problems began. Remember how I said I had been feeling really tired recently? It's because of the nightmares. I kid you not. Actual, honest-to-God, wake you up at night feeling sweaty and needing your mother nightmares. About working.

And by working I mean setting the alarm at 7 every morning - taking an overcrowded metro - sitting in an office all day - getting yelled at by people - being way too tired when you get home to do anything - living with a blackberry attached to your hip like some kind of tumor. That kind of working. The kind that comes with a paycheck.

Fortunately, I have simultaneously discovered melatonin.

And next week I'll be in Namibia.

So then I can dream about lions and tigers and bears. Oh my!

Of Love and Literature

I'm sorry boys and girls. I've been out frolicking in the countryside, enjoying my new life of love and freedom and literary treats, and I've just been leaving you by the wayside, haven't I. How very selfish of me.

But you have to understand. This is it! The life I've always wanted! It's finally mine! (Please refrain from calling forth unsavoury images of Gollum, or those seagulls in Finding Nemo.)

And so Newly Minted Res has been busy. Seeing her friends. Even in the middle of the day. Whenever they need her, really. And travelling on the weekends to nurture a young but promising love affair. And writing, re-writing, erasing, tweaking, and generally tearing her hair and heart out over the pages of that young but promising novel of hers. Basically there's lots of nurturing. So much so that one day I may be able to graduate onto a pet. Possibly a goldfish.

But I digress. This was supposed to be an apology. I'm not terribly good at written apologies. I find the teary-eyed hug technique to be so much more effective. (I'm irresistible when I go in for the teary-eyed hug, no matter how unforgivable I've been).

So instead of an apology, let me offer a gift. Of the latest two books I've read which were absolutely incredible, and the one I'm reading now which promises to be just as good (there's another thing I've been catching up on besides love, liberty and happiness: reading. It is possible I've died and gone to Res heaven. And I don't even miss the Blackberry one little bit.)

1. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society - Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows: don't be put off by the title, or the epistolary form, this book is a treat, like a toffee that keeps getting better as it melts in your mouth. Irresistible.

2. The Uncommon Reader - Alan Bennett: imagine if the Queen did nothing all day but devour novels. Are you smiling yet? You've only just started.

3. The Book Thief - Markus Zusak: it's not just the premise that's left-field, but the style as well. And the result is bewitching.

Notice that all three books are about... books. There's a sign there, I think.

The Second Coming

Like an unfurling caterpillar, or Nessie's lesser-known tiny sibling, I am slowly emerging from the muckety-muck that has been 2009. And boy does it feel good.

These are what my days look like now.

8:30 AM: iPod posing as an alarm turns on. I smile, wrap myself up in the duvet like a pig in a - well - duvet, and scrunch up my eyes as my toes start wriggling to the tunes.

9 AM: Curious to see if the sun is shining, I stretch loudly and luxuriously across the entire span of my massive bed before hopping over to where I keep the caffeine.

10:30 AM: Having had my fill of the morning news, coffee, and email, I walk the 2 minutes to my gym to sweat profusely on the treadmill watched only by a small battalion of über-gay men in snazzy tight-fitting outfits. Running makes me happy. Running is my Everest. Considering that back in March I was in the hospital and unable to walk all the way to the bathroom without wanting to curl up and die next to my oxygen tank, the fact that I'm now clocking in at 7km fills me with an unsurpassable sense of pride and accomplishment. Hey, everything's relative.

12:30 PM: Right. Time to cook some lunch. While singing to myself. Because it makes the veggies more tender.

2 PM: This is when I begrudgingly admit that I am actually still employed by BM, open up the dreaded work laptop, and hammer out a few slides with some fun banking-related inanities on it that I don't understand. But as long as I align the boxes and choose my colour scheme carefully, I figure no one will notice.

7 PM: Okie dokie, work day is done, now I get to play! So what shall we do this evening? Dinner with friends? Movie? Early night with a good book? A meet-the-author event at the library (that's right, I have now met Petite Anglaise)? Wine tasting? The possibilities are endless.

And then there's all the other stuff. Weekends away to the four corners of Europe, visiting friends and seeking adventures. Walking across Paris to see how the rest of the city is doing. Daydreaming about renting a flat in Havana à la Hemingway. Preparing to lecture my former INSEAD professors (seriously). And the book.

Because there is a book, of course. Or a foetus of a book, at this stage.

But more on that another day.

A life less ordinary

Squeeze

Yesterday's post serves as the perfect example of why I should never press "publish" in the middle of the night, when I can't sleep and I'm feeling sorry for myself.

Because I just end up looking for excuses and blaming hapless passerbys. Like that guy. Yup, I'm talking to you, buddy.

Let's get something straight. I know exactly what I want. If I were so inclined, I could laboriously describe in excruciating detail, every little molecular component that comprises what I want.

Knowing what I want is not the problem. The problem is that getting what I want is not entirely dependent on me, and the bits that are dependent on me are scary.

Which means that what I need isn't advice. What I need is to get a grip.

Right.

Anybody got a grip I could borrow?

Day 3

So what does one do when one is enjoying one's first week of freedom after having quit from a premiere consulting firm?

Well, first, one avoids answering the phone. Because one is employed in France, and one has to give three months' notice, which means that technically one is supposed to be working. Ouch.

True, I could have asked to be relieved from my notice period, but three months worth of paychecks is difficult to forego if you're Res and have a) an overpriced apartment and b) a slightly problematic shopping habit.

And so I got staffed this morning (yup, you guessed it, it has to do with banking...) But I made sure I accurately "managed expectations" and ended up spending the entire day in my neighbourhood shopping - I mean, walking. Not bad for a day's work. Let's see how long I can pull this off.

Also on the to-do list today was to give notice on the afore-mentioned overpriced apartment. The apartment I love more than anything that I've managed to get my grubby little hands on in the past year. The apartment that is so unbelievably cool it actually makes people put up with me just so they can be invited to see it. The apartment that I have barely spent more than 72 hours in since May.

By Christmas, this beautiful apartment and I will be parting ways. Come January, who knows where little Res will be resting her little unemployed head? Another smaller, more affordable apartment in Paris? Back in the burbs with the parents? Or in a beach hut somewhere in Jamaica? (You never know, some Jamaican boy with a beach hut might be feeling generous... In fact, if you are such a boy, can I just mention that I am relatively tidy and come with my own coffee machine.)