Last Friday of Summer

I feel like it was someplace obvious, and then, nowhere at all.

The badgering memory of that same temperature many Augusts ago before the wedding on the bluff, through imaginary associations that give Alice in Wonderland a run for her money.

Ah, there it is. The endless cleaning, mopping up the mess. That was a line in a poem I wrote about my parents’ marriage. Except I felt like, at the time, I was the one cleaning up the mess, on a daily basis, as I over-achieved my way through junior year to be accepted everywhere I wanted to be and ended up going where I did not want to be confined. In the end, the confines launched a nomadic spirit and the end lies in its beginning.

So as I listen to advice that makes sense from my alma mater which I have come to be proud of in a way I did not expect when I was facing first year dorm with a wacko roommate whose boyfriend was at Notre Dame, but you sure couldn’t tell by the number of boys who crashed in our room. How do these things happen? If not for some sort of absurdist theater, then I could do without the psychos I have encountered and had to endure too many times, for too long, because I was trained to be patient, to wait it out, to make haste when you make you escape.

Today I decided could be a perfect day if I stayed to my Meyer-Briggs Strong Campbell Personality Career test results of “Army Officer” personality, architect mind, model maker precision. Then I glanced at the sometimes uncannily accurate horoscope which I do not consult on any regular basis but more as an amusement – unless the whole thing is a shitstorm, like today, then I think what the fuck, are all Virgos going back to bed right now?

Which is why I take so little seriously – we make the truths we want, see the realities we are programmed to believe and must break out of all constructs to even have a chance of knowing ourselves on any level deeper than your credit score, accolades, and measures of ephemeral wealth, to even understand there is another layer to the dread, anxiety, panic attacks, PTSD, insecurities, doubts, fears and existential angst that everyone tries to talk you out of because it’s just a drag, man.

“You’re clinically xyz…”

Um no, actually I am not. I know what the problem is and this is the way I have to address it because you are not me and although I appreciate your timeless and caring advice to get over it (because you’re over it), I have to process it through the means of my existence – because I want to learn and lead the best life I can before I die, and that’s not morbid, that is the most hopeful wish and belief I have ever had. I have a vision now. It is not close at hand. I must do many dreaded things before that. I hate wasting time on things that I don’t think matter–which are things that many people to think matter, like power, more than everyone else, self-worth equals net worth, social status, luxury items, adoration of fans — all are trivial to me. I know how much time there is in one life and I don’t know how much time there is in mine so I don’t want to waste any of it dealing with bullshit, anymore. And yet, bullshit, exists. Must be mired through. And so, I continue to listen to the webinar “Explore your financial goals and define your American Dream.” That is a worthy thought to absorb and I know that I am like no one else on this seminar, no one has to start over this late (based on the questions they are asking, based on the pedigree of my school — have I let them down? Not in merit, credits, experience — but in terms of success as measured by amassed income — no way. I have lived the glass ceiling under the concrete-woman, producer, in the worst industry there is in terms of fairness–entertainment. And here I am. Having made 1/2 of what my male peers make for my entire executive career.

And so it goes. I created much of it, not necessarily to beat myself up for making mistakes because has I known they were mistakes, I would have probably chosen a different course. That’s why hindsight is the most annoying of all sights. It’s pointless. Yes, now we know. Duh. I don’t want my life to be one big DUH.

So as I approach my mid-centurion milestone, I reflect on much of the torment and device means of working my through it like Charles Bronson in The Great Escape.

I am determined to make it work, and in the end, live to tell the tale — so that others can fast track past the crap and deal with the actual intensity that when it hits you can derail an entire well-laid plan, and to re-route can take precious years that you do not get back. If honesty can be the litmus, then I will consistently seek my own truth. That’s the best I can do, this last Friday of my 40s.

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