Deadlines be damned

As I would find out later, this one was special. I enjoyed my coworkers. I had a work-life balance. I was respected. And I was good at it. I was about a year out of college when I started that job. I got the interview through my stepdad. But because we have different last names, no one knew who he was to me. So when I got the job, I knew it wasn’t because of that.

My first project was a 3-month stint in the summer of 2005 in a historic landmark building called the Ziggurat. It’s a 10-story building that serves as the headquarters of the Department of General Services (DGS). We crossed the Tower Bridge almost daily to walk into the cobblestone streets of Old Sacramento’s waterfront. It was a beautiful part of town, and I felt important. A real ego validitation mindfuck, because the traditional 9-5 of it all suffocated me ever so slowly.

I worked on the communications team. So it wasn’t a far divergence from my degree - Journalism. Hard to gauge the ages of my teammates because I was only 22. But if I had to guess, they were all in their mid-to-late 20s or early 30s. I looked up to them. They served as my guides in navigating this chapter. Brent burned me a CD of a band he recommended. He and his wife, along with the others, took me under their wing. We’d go to happy hours and the occasional boozy lunch.

When the project hit a particular milestone (I don’t recall what), we had a celebratory dinner at a fancy restaurant overlooking the river. Project managers ordered endless $100 bottles of wine.

The lavishness of it all glamoured me. The excitement of this adult world was palpable. The power pulsed in a way that intoxicated me. The money I made. My Anne Taylor and Express “working girl” wear. “IT business consultant” sounded good at Thanksgiving and on paper.

One night, I stayed late to help my co-worker assemble packets for a bidder’s conference. She was my senior, though not my boss. But I liked her, and the work made me feel needed. Like I was doing something. Much like one of the many late-night cram sessions from college. The “would we get it done” drama felt comfortable and safe.

I also had a brief tryst with a contractor from our partner company. I was still in my “seeking male attention” era, which, to be fair, lasted well into my 30s.

Honestly, I didn’t even like him. But I liked the hit I got because he liked me. And as soon as we slept together, it quickly crumbled. For him, the quest was over. Sure. But for me, it was, too. After the attention was won, the high I got from it waned.

What did the job and the tryst have in common? I saw my worth through the lens of both. My validation was outsourced in a big way.

We call this foreshadowing.

Only while I was living it - as with most movies and books - I was just a clueless character. Not the omniscent reader my hindsight allows me.

My past has been haunting me of late. I wake up with hits of insight. Maybe it has something to do with Aries in some moon eclipse retrograde shit? Maybe it’s because a strong-willed 4-year-old compromises my sleep? Maybe this is just middle age?

All I know is I’m supposed to be finishing a script, but all I can think about is writing these memories down.

Isn’t that how creativity works? I’m going to make this be! A bold proclamation is set. And then the brain is ablaze with inspiration for literally anything else.

I wonder if I left this script sit for too long? Has the idea left me for someone else? Elizabeth Gilbert speaks of this in her book, Big Magic.

Maybe I should give it up?

But I won’t. I’ll muscle through. To prove to myself that I can finish. As painful as it might be. I need to reach completion. Maybe I enjoy punishing myself for letting it slip through my fingers? My penance for not writing when the story felt easy and flowed.

Or maybe I need to prove that I can push past this uncomfortable slog to the finish line.

What I won’t do is ignore the pings now, which is why I’m here. Writing about a time in my life that was 20 years ago.

Because maybe I need to soak in its lessons. Or maybe it’ll resonate with you.

The only thing I know for sure is that the “why” is none of my business, but listening to the call of my soul definitely is. And something in me knows that I have to follow the inspiration down this rabbit hole. Even though it makes no logical sense. And man do I love logic. A point of contention for my artist side.

While I wrote this, a new job opportunity came my way. Maybe that’s the lesson here. Do what you’re called to do, and the universe will reward it. Deadlines be damned.