The Wheels on the “8” Bounce Back and Back

“Bounce back.”

We’ve heard this little nugget of advice numerous times over the years, haven’t we?  It’s in the family of “don’t let a bad hour ruin a good day”.  A not-so-distant cousin of “it’s going to be okay, just relax.”  The twin brother/sister of “shake it off”.  And this family gets through the rainy days under the umbrella of “this too shall pass”.

 

With a new year starting, such as 2018, now is as good a time as any to address a new type of resolution that can ball up a lot of the old ones into one big, shiny, new ball that can bounce back to the frontal cortex of your brain.

Bounce back.

Yes, I know, it is a vague and abstract idea that could do with some elaboration.  Like any piece of art you could find in a museum or a Google Images search, it’s interpretive.  It has different connotations for different people, going through any myriad of life experiences that can distort how they see things.

Personally, the concept of “bounce back” means “Carrie, you went through something rough just now, but it doesn’t have to ride you for the rest of the day.  Tomorrow, it will only be a memory.  Get through this now, and it’ll be okay.  Shake it off.”

Working as a cashier at a major store in California, I get to deal with customers for hours at a time.  When the cliche “it takes all kinds” was created, I have to wonder if it wasn’t first opined by someone in the retail industry.

For those reading this who are unaware, California has exercised a law recently where people are charged ten cents per bag, if they choose to buy a bag from the store, as opposed to bringing in their own to use.

It frustrates people.  It frustrates A LOT of people.  Especially those who feel they’re already paying a lot in this state.  Then there are the people who have bags in their car and simply forgot to bring them in when they were parking.  It is also said that there are conspiracies about what the state is really doing with that money.  One dime on its own can feel like a drop in the bucket to some, and the difference between affording a dozen eggs, or going without.  A dime (or two) for some people can be the breaker between a good day to a bad day.

How does this tie into what I was discussing earlier?  Simple.

When the customer(s) come to the register to unload all their loot, I greet them, and then ask, “do you have your own bags, or do you need some of ours?”

Their bodies sink into themselves, their shiny eyes lose that glimmer, their inner Eeyore comes out to show itself.

“Shit, I forgot to bring bags.”  They stall, look over what they have in the cart, try to do the math as to whether the bag purchase is really worth it, or do they want to run to the car and come back, or can all the stuff be put back into the cart, and they’ll just travel the cart all the way to their vehicle.

Who knew “do you want a bag?”, would become such an existential question?

When the customer begrudgingly concedes to the purchase of a bag, this is where I insert my own “bounce back” initiative.  Call it an affirmation, call it perspective, call it cheesy, whatever.

“Not a big deal”, I say.

“If this is the worst thing to happen all day, you’re having a good day.”  Sometimes, this actually cheers the customers up.

I honestly don’t remember where I first heard this.  I’d love to credit it to my grandfather (He was a smart man, and my personality seems to have reflected his over the years).  Looking back, though, I don’t think he gave me that gem.  It may have been from a book.  Lord-of-the-Rings, we all know I’ve read plenty of those.

Wherever it came from, once it was spoken to me, my ears reached for it, gripped it tightly, and tucked it somewhere along the front right side of my brain, for safe-keeping.

A shorter way of saying it is…

Yep.

Bounce back.

Back to the store:

I’ve been a cashier for about 6 months already, and felt ready to explore other areas to work in.  They’ve been giving me little bubbles of time in the Guest Services area, where customers come to return items (Sweet baby cheeses, people!  Try the clothes on in the fitting rooms first!  Commit to the item when you’re here!)

Every time I’ve come into the store, from the outside looking in, it didn’t seem like it was too big of a stretch from doing the cashier work.  The area to work in is slightly bigger – and yes, it gets cluttered with all sorts of paraphernalia – but it seems like nothing out of the ordinary when you’re just walking by.

But then you actually get around to the other side of the counter.  Shit changes fast, at least for me.  And the whole concept of “bounce back” gets lost in the melee of multiple balls bouncing at me.  That isn’t just metaphorical either.  I’ve seen actual bouncy balls being returned.

That’s right, Paw Patrol, ya furry bastard!  I’m talking to you!

There’s a lot happening.  Returns, more returns, sorting what items were returned to said items’ respective carts, picking up items for guests who ordered online and had it delivered here.  The phone ringing on occasion.  Guests coming up to complain about the restrooms.  On my second day in that area, I was left alone.  Everything that I could do well at when there were people around, now felt next-to-impossible, when I was alone.

Not to mention the walkie-talkies.

Holy shitballs, Batman!  Those things are LOUD!

When I’m trying to concentrate on what I’m doing, and those radios go off, it’s disruptive and entirely off-putting.  I’m in a sea of overwhelmingly obnoxious sharks.  They don’t necessarily bite.  They just show their teeth in a threatening way.  Hence the “obnoxious”-ness.  It doesn’t help that I’m working alone in that area.

Anxiety crawls through my body, taps me on the shoulder, and tells me that I’m naturally going to suck at everything, no matter how hard I try not to.  That everyone can see my “Loser” cape peeking out from my work outfit, and I should run away now before I turn back into a werewolf.  (A werewolf who wears a cape with a big “L” on it.  You now have that image in your head for the rest of the day.  You’re welcome.)

 

The tears well, my shoulders cover my ears, and a look of abject fear covers my face.  Like that last punch on any fighter video game, my energy is completely depleted, and I only want to escape to a safe space.  A quiet corner of my apartment, for instance.

After that initial experience of independent guest servicing, I found my boss a little later and voiced my concern about whether I really belonged there.  I didn’t feel right there, and my anxiety had me at a highly sensitive level, mood-wise.  My manager, a woman I look up to and have great respect for, was surprised when I mentioned my condition of anxiety.

She came back to me a little later in the same day and told me she hadn’t even considered me as an anxious person because I generally handle myself very well when it comes to dealing with customers.

I explained, “when I’m at the cash register, and the people are only coming from one direction, absolutely I’m on my game.  I can do that with no problem.  It’s when there’s activity from five different directions at once, I get anxious.”

I don’t mention the fact that I’m Asperger’s without a diagnosis, because in all seriousness, without official diagnoses, it’s just conjecture.  It’s considered “uneducated guessing”.  I don’t have a doctor’s degree, I only have the history.  And quite frankly, even those specialised doctors STILL don’t have all the answers to what makes someone fit into the role of Asperger’s.  So I keep that part to myself.  I came out as gay much easier than I ever could as an Aspie.

New Year’s Eve, I had taken on a shift that would have me in that department yet again.  My entire body groaned.  My spirit lost some of its height, and I could feel that anxiety demon knocking to get in through my shins.

Not this again.

Bounce back, Carrie.  I’m telling myself this as my legs bring me closer to that dreaded area.  Bounce back, you can do this, you’re the only one who thinks you can’t.  Put on your lady-balls, and bounce the fuck back!

Later in the evening, the same manager came by to check on the progress of sorting out the returned items.  My immediate workspace was fully cluttered with miscellaneous items of all the departments.  Not to mention the items being held, a co-worker who was frustrated with me being frustrated with my current responsibilities, and a blaring walkie-talkie.

Now, I can put on a poker face from time to time.  Not often, granted, but it has come to show up in my mental toolbox from time to time.  When I can zone out into any one responsibility, it’s on.  It looks like the identical sister to Resting Bitch Face (neither of them put on any make-up), but so long as nobody talks to me, and lets me do the one responsibility without talking myself, I’m good.

Then the reality that I can’t be there wordlessly sets in, and my manager asks me how I’m doing, I’m forced to look around me once again, and take it all in.

Bye Poker-Face!  Toodles, motherfucker.  It was nice while it lasted.  Here comes good ol’ Anxiety to stand, spread-eagle, across my cheeks and eyes.

“Why do you have that face?” she asked.

“Huh?” I respond.

“You look anxious.”

“I am.  It’s just…so much!”

“You don’t have to be anxious, Carrie.  You can do this.  Just keep going.”

I don’t have to be anxious?  Really?  Just that easy?

Let’s be clear, for those of you who were lucky enough to never have the condition of anxiety;

On the computer of life, “Anxiety” is not a special feature.  It’s default.  When you inadvertently reset, boom! There it is.  That little hourglass, turning, that tells you “hang on, Sweet Cheeks!  We’re working on finding the programs that help you get along in this world.”

I don’t have the money to buy an advanced Apple, with the Confidence program version 40.1.  It’s just not in my budget.  I have a Dell. (I named it Adele, because fuck it, I love a good pun.)  I’ve only had the “Bounce Back” feature for a few years, and even that program doesn’t always run when I need it to.

So I come to the present day, where my Bounce Back feature seems to be running fairly smoothly.

I work tonight, and the full shift is as Cashier.

It’s Eureka, California, so not every customer is going to be a winner.

But it’s 2018 now, and hey, I can still bounce back.

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How Something Bad Can Provoke Something Good

This past weekend was a bittersweet one.

I did not march in the protest, though I wanted to. I wanted my voice in the chorus of power, to tell the country exactly where I stood. Certain barriers, though invisible, were overpowering. Barriers like anxiety, which are overwhelming at the most inconvenient times, can get Rudolph to keep himself out of the reindeer games.

As frustration mounts, I know that simply standing by the wayside is not an option. To be mute is as unforgivable as being with the opponents. Stagnancy has no place here.

So I revert to what I know makes me feel stronger: art.

Art is a great portal to a welcoming world. It is all-encompassing, it is all-consuming, or at least it should be. It is communication without speaking.

A test run

Art is the foundation from which happiness grows. It doesn’t have to be a Degas, it only has to be a you. It has to be genuinely you. That’s the only rule.

The piece above isn’t exactly breath-taking, but it’s all me. It was a message that railed against the walls of my brain. It would not be ignored until it was let out.

This is how you can protest. Fight with your head and hands, and you will always come out the winner.

Trying to Get the Success of Trump, Without Coming Off As A Rump

In a freelancer’s world, you can do whatever you want. However, whatever it is you want to do had better include some element of sales, or your “product/service” won’t get far.

Sales requires confidence. Regardless of whether it’s inherent, or more fake-it-til-you-make-it, it needs to exist inside of you.

This is where Trump comes in, and the hypothetical Achilles heel walks the path. It’s no secret that I don’t like anything about him. I didn’t vote for him. I was vocally for Bernie Sanders from start to finish. Trump’s self-esteem trampled over the line to the darker side of arrogance. His bluntly honest prejudice against races, sexes and sexual proclivities makes my skin crawl.

Having said that, let’s take a hard look at the last couple of years and use another term for what Donald Trump is; the “Underdog”.

Normally, I root for the underdog. Movies, sports, movies about sports, Davy versus Goliath, the one guy moving against the crowds, running in the opposite direction. Reality seems to be the only platform where I want the underdog euthanized.

From the beginning, Trump had everyone laughing that he was even going to try to run. Then the campaigning started, and the general idea was that this was simply a publicity stunt. People all across the nation were waiting for the punchline, where none existed. This orange dude was still going! He was saying some of the most repugnant things, unimaginable to the minds of us “liberals”, but he was still in the race, and we lost Bernie and had to back up Hillary, simply because she was the only front-runner who wasn’t Trump.

And he beat her.

Disbelief led to rage and tears, which led to a hashtag frenzy in this modern-day age of #notmypresident’s, #wtf’s , #fourmoreyears and so on. Everyone who has a heart and actually believes in equality was asking, “how could this happen?” Oh yeah, the electoral college. The new guy in charge won them over, and that’s all that mattered as far as he was concerned. They’re the ones with the money. They’re the ones who get the final say.

Whether this was a fact easily hidden, or easily forgotten, it matters not. It is what it is.

So how does this translate into the world of freelancing? C’mon, Carrie, bring this back to the start of the circle.

You have to make your audience believe you’re the best at what you do, that they won’t get a better product or service elsewhere. Whether by building a flashy website with examples of your work and references, or holding a meeting with a presentation and PowerPoint.

This — all of this — takes a lot of confidence and conviction in yourself. It also takes a talent of dancing on that fine line that – when plucked — quivers from “confidence” to “arrogance”. It takes time to build the foundation, naturally. But it’s time well spent if you believe in what you are selling. If your product/service is truly awesome, it oftentimes sells itself.

Here are five (and a half) important questions to ask yourself:

1. Do you know your audience?

2. Do you know the proper environment for your product/service? Is this something that’s only regional, or could it be taken nationwide?

3. Are your prices reasonable for what you’re doing?

4. Is there competition? If so, how can you “beat them at the game”?

5. What is your daily regime, and is there space for alternatives? Meaning, if you generally get up at eight in the morning, do your exercises, then have breakfast and then get started on your work, will a new contract that requires you to show up at their site by 8:30 a.m. throw you off your game?

5a. Do you have the resolve and flexibility to make amendments to your day?

These are all important questions to ask yourself. If you find yourself answering “no” to any of them, you might want to consider finding a way to say “yes” to them, at least initially.

Trying To Find Peace Within When There’s Panic Without

Today feels like a funeral.  Rest in peace, Hope.  Rest in peace, Promise of Better Days.

I’ve been staring at this screen, trying to figure out what I could possibly state that hasn’t already been stated in so many ways, so many times over.  It isn’t simply a sense of being bereft.  And no, I’m not going to “just get over it”.  That’s impossible.  I’m having a hard enough time getting through it.

This new era, for lack of a better term, is not brave, nor is it encouraging.  These are scary times.  Beyond the fear of the unknown, I’m dealing with anxiety of what I am – admittedly – assuming is going to happen.  As a woman, I am scared of having my rights taken away from me just because Drumpf wants the power.  Health insurance is a human need in this day and age.  To have Obamacare repealed, with nothing supplied in it’s stead, means for me a potential slow death.  Getting health insurance from the temp agency I get a majority of my work from will take a chunk of money out of my weekly pay.

If I don’t get health insurance, I get fined.  If I do get health insurance, I get charged.  Whether it’s “fined” or “charged”, I still have to pay to live.  Sounds a lot like getting mugged, right?  Yeah, that’s how it feels, too.

I worry that I have to look over my shoulder now, checking to see if some asshole is going to try and put his paws on me because he assumes he can.  Is someone going to order me to “go back where you came from”, simply because they hear my accent?  Do I have to adopt an American accent, sounding cartoon-y and obnoxious again, like I did when I was a kid?  Just to try and blend in?  To ensure a new target isn’t self-drawn?

In the beginning of this year, I had silently resolved to not revert to politics in every conversation I have.

This is, apparently, harder than I thought it would be.  The politics are everywhere and in everything.  They were especially prevalent in my blog yesterday, in which I put the Girl Scouts on blast for their participation in the Inauguration march.

That’s money saved!  Now that I’m no longer giving them my money, I have to find other cookies to eat.  Hey there, Trader Joe’s!  What’s doin’?

After posting the blog on the Facebook page for Shaunta Grimes’ Ninja Writers (a closed group), someone read it and proceeded to tell me to “get over it, you lost!”  At which point, I stood up for myself and told Rainbow Brite – in no uncertain terms – that with Drumpf, we all lose.  Someone else piped in saying it was a political post, which is partially true. (It was mostly about not getting young girls involved in the politics that involve a highly publicised sexual aggressor.)

I said it.  I meant it.  I stand by it.

Ms. Grimes apparently couldn’t handle this with diplomacy, and wordlessly booted me off the page.  No warning.  No mediation.

So much for freedom of speech, eh?

No problem.

As I type all of this, the Inept-guration is happening now.  I can’t watch the nightmare.

The question now is, where do we go from here?  A part of me would like to hide in an underground bunker hidden away in a state that neither Drumpf nor his mail-order bride knows about.  Another part of me wants to expand my work and succeed, just to spite the racist xenophobe dick-tator.  Rise up and take power of my life, my career as a writer, my hobbies in art, and to live my united-colours-of-Benetton existence and treat my neighbours of all colours, creeds and religions or lack-thereof, with respect.

Except Trump supporters.  They can fuck off into traffic.  He might be their president, but he’s not mine.

And I stand by that statement as well.

Excuse Me, Waiter, Could You Take This Decision Back? It’s Too Hard.

Earlier this morning, I had come to a decision I really didn’t want to make. I had been building myself up for the last few weeks to collect my things, box, bag or bin them, and pull up stakes to move to Rhode Island.

There was going to be a whole new life. It was going to be better, it was going to be less of a struggle, there was going to be pizza right around the corner.

Okay, so I have to walk down a few blocks to get the pizza, so what?

After spending this last weekend in the room I was supposed to take on, getting a feel for the immediate environment, and being given new, upsetting information AFTER I had stated that I would take the room, my brain had been going back-and-forth on what I needed to do.

Yes, there’s the be-afraid-but-do-it-anyway concept the late Carrie Fisher was a big fan of. There’s also an attribute that a lot of other people talk about, and that is what’s known as your “gut feeling”.

My gut feeling was that my being afraid was rational. My gut was telling me that if I had made this move to a place I had a lot of reservations about, that neither my gut, nor my brain, would be happy about it. That this would be history repeating itself, and I would have proven to myself that I hadn’t learned from past mistakes.

Desperation does not a good motivator make.

So for now, I’m staying put, and I’m going to keep up the good fight. Is it going to be a struggle, staying in New York City? Indubitably.

Am I going to be eating ramen noodles more often? Without a doubt.

But at the end of the day, I’m in the same “home” I’ve been in for the past four years, and I’m not ready to let go of that just yet. I thought I was, but I was wrong.

Anxiety is a part of who I am. Sometimes, it rides shotgun, and it’s a 50 lb weight spread-eagle on my head. Other times, it takes a nap, but snores. The bottom line is that I know what I’m capable of. I’m capable of surviving through struggles. I’ve been at it for a while. I also know that if I’m going to struggle, I want to have a support net nearby, and not just on Facebook.

This isn’t to say that I won’t be moving out of Brooklyn at some point this year.

It just won’t be in February.

If I, As My Own Worst Enemy Can Accept Me, You Can, Too!

When I come in to any temporary gig in the mornings, much like everyone else, I head to my desk and unload the coat, the scarf, the handbag (holy shitballs, Batman! What is IN there? Books!), and I flop into my seat. Computer turned on? Check. Headset ready? Dinky little thing is sitting there, staring at me, begging for love. I oblige because hey, I’m a lover not a fighter.

However, unlike most of the women in the office, I’m shuffling to the coffee machine instead of the rest room. While they check that their hair and make-up is in place, I’m checking that the mug is completely clean, devoid of any remaining sugar on the rim from yesterday’s caffeine-fest.

I can hear them walking up the hallway, talking about the new eyeliner, the new blush (“It’s a cream, Annie! It’s magical!” Sweetheart, it’s not unicorn blood, okay? Take it down a few notches.), and I feel relieved not to be in their “circle”. I’m a low maintenance type of woman. I put on the bare necessities in the morning, because I don’t want people thinking I’m a zombie. I’ve seen enough “Walking Dead” episodes to know that would not end well.

Foundation, eyeliner, and a dab of light crimson on the cheeks. I’m good.

(I once went to the mall, and a woman was doing free makeovers. She told me I was a “Fall”. I responded with, “yeah I do fall a lot, but these feet are new. I’m just working out the gears.” She stopped the makeover early. I think she sensed I wasn’t going to buy anything.)

As far as hair, I have a blissfully short haircut. Lately the worst I have to deal with is looking like Christopher Walken with an Alfalfa cowlick in the back. Why won’t it stay down? STAY DOWN!

I’m sure my simplistic appearance would be rated a 4 by the likes of Drumpf. Not only am I fine with that, I’m relieved.

I stopped reading the magazines that constantly told me what was wrong with me. These “tips” mind you, came up AFTER I bought the crap the same magazines had shilled exactly one issue ago. The articles on how to get fit and build muscle, and then they would complain/judge/mock women who had too much muscle. They’ll inform you of the best ways to “get skinny”, and then put someone on blast for being too skinny.

The best way to get out of this circus is to leave the tent.

I found myself happier when these “resources” weren’t swarmed around me. When I didn’t have these little bees buzzing in my ear, when I had finally swatted them away for good, I was able to get on with my day with my coffee in one hand, book in the other, music in my ears. My “Fuck Off” Wall was up successfully, with no unwanted visitors allowed in. It didn’t cost Mexico a penny!

I have no plastic surgery, because I don’t need it. Plus, self-esteem is a lot cheaper. I’m not getting my eyes lifted, my nose done, my lips fattened, my neck pulled back, none of that bullshit. I’m not exactly auditioning for Miss February, but that’s awesome. Fucking flash on those cameras causes me migraines, anyway.

When I look in the mirror, I see — immediately — my grandparents. I’m told often that the resemblance I bear to my grandmother is remarkable. I always found her to be beautiful and full of laughter. So when people tell me that I look just like her, I take it as the highest of compliments. I mean, seriously? I already got this?!? I’M GOLDEN! Why would I alter that?

Grandma.

Me.

There’s going to be days where I’m not going to feel so sparkly. I already know this. I’ve been on this roller-coaster so many times, I know to expect the drops. I’ve had days where I didn’t want to look in the mirror ever. I was ready to toss everything that gave even the remotest of reflections.  But I always got past it.

The point is this; if you would give the finger to a random stranger who told you “you’re not good enough”, why wouldn’t you do that to these “beauty experts”? Toss the magazines, pick up a book, laugh at life hard enough so you get those crinkles by the eyes. That shit is awesome!

The biggest gift we can give ourselves is ourselves. The rest will be handled by the rest.

“Youth and beauty are not accomplishments.” — Carrie Fisher