Insatiability and My Goldilocks-Mindfuck

Of course I’m bored; I’m laid up with an injury preventing me from doing the one thing I love to do and the one thing I do to generate enough income to do it (and pay the rest of the bills). I’ve wandered through four and a half seasons of House. I’ve read a book. I’ve cooked and baked myself into an unnecessary five pounds. I’ve had more frequent sex than I’ve had in many, many years. I’d say boredom is right on target.

I turned twenty-five yesterday. No longer in officially in my early twenties and having to brave the new reality of my mid-twenties and car insurance discounts, I had a moment of: I should be getting my shit together. I can’t keep acting like time isn’t passing, like my twenties are going to last forever and I’ll cross alternate-career bridges when they mysteriously never appear because I’m not admitting that it’s happening, that time is passing slowly but steadily towards an actual stripping career end.

I left home, early. I struggled, I won hard independence and financial catastrophe and occasional homelessness. I settled into being totally broke and trying to “do college” for three years, and left when I just knew I didn’t want it badly enough. Not yet. I didn’t have a goal or direction, and I still don’t. I found stripping, won complete autonomy and financial stability, a nice Midwestern middle-class lifestyle. When I was a broke college student, that’s all I wanted: a nice Midwestern middle-class lifestyle, out of the city. Stripping gives me the Goldilocks middle of safe “enough” thrills and adrenaline rushes, the stimulation of work never being the same, the reward of feeling as though I’m touching others and they’re touching me, the puzzle of figuring people out, a salve for my need to observe and think and experience humanity in its whole spectrum. There’s the peripheral benefits of precious time, friends, money, flexibility, and working less for greater reward, sure, but I’ve stayed in it this long because it’s fascinating. The whole Underworld keeps my brain busy for hours at work, and many hours away from it thinking, talking, and writing to process the whole experience. The Things I See.

I think…I think this time being away from work has given me a sense that I’m bored again. My brain isn’t busy like it used to be at work. I find things to write about, and sure, I still encounter interesting people. My jaw hits the floor on a regular basis. None of it, though, surprises me with the sense of being overwhelmed anymore. The puzzles are more like 24-piece wooden children’s puzzles instead of 500-piece monochromes.

Feeling whiny for days because my brain hasn’t been busy in a few weeks while I’m sitting at home, I’ve invented lists of tasks to complete. I’ve done dozens of crossword puzzles, played Sudoku, gotten lost in Google tornadoes, looked up all of House‘s diagnoses, been amused by sex in various settings with antics I wouldn’t have considered. I realized, on my sixth episode for another sleepless night, that these are all the things I’ve been doing more of for months, to relieve boredom, to pass time, I’ve been tired because the world around me isn’t shiny enough right now.

When a pal/former coworker of mine headed out into the world to begin life anew, collecting the education and experience she’d need to find a fulfilling and enjoyable career beyond dancing, I congratulated her and listened when she needed a friend, trying not to show too much jealousy or, in my frustration, worse. The situation is complex, but the gist is that it wasn’t the kind of thing that will be available to me in my future. Life ain’t fair, but I reconciled my world with the rest of it a long time ago. It’s something else, and for weeks I’ve thought I was a whiny little bitch because I didn’t get the same kind of “deal” in life that she’s gotten at this point in hers. That’s true, maybe, to a small extent, but I think  a lost and confused part of me comes from realizing that there’s more out in the world than I realized I could aspire to, and that I should get started on that, pronto, before I wither away with arthritic hands grasping a pole and clawed feet permanently encased in stilettos. I think the whiny little bitch part comes in when I realize that I have no idea how the hell to make The Future happen, or what I want it to look like. My picture of what The Future in My Life should look like disintegrated, bam, on my twenty-fifth birthday.

I worked hard to get here, where I am in life, right now. I’ve been satisfied with where I live, the details of my life, the personal accomplishments and endurance feats for a few years. It’s never enough, I’ve never been enough, long enough to just be satisfied. A few years goes by, and the clock starts ticking down to another challenge, another damned puzzle. It’s like a high, claiming I hate change and seeking it all at once. Maybe that’s part neurosis, and part of what keeps me moving forward, keeps me on my toes and sharp. Either way, I’m easily bored and never satisfied, and I can’t think of a single thing that would keep me satisfied for more than a handful of years. Not even if I had five billion dollars or more.

How do I make a career out of that? How am I supposed to create some sort of title to aspire to, to be educated for, to attach to my identity?

I think others just pick something. Or they just wind up in something. A freshman in college, they take a class in whatever suits their under-developed personalities, and pick something. Or they can’t decide, and pretty soon there’s a deadline on figuring their shit out and they just wind up in something. I don’t want to. Kicking my feet, dragging my heels, throwing a tantrum — I won’t. I don’t want to. And my damned personality and interests are still growing exponentially, year by year.

The owner of a boarding stable I used to work for posted a notice on Facebook yesterday, asking for part-time help. I called her, asking about the job, letting her know that I’d be happy to do it. It’s mucking stalls and filling water buckets, six days a week, for about four hours; something I’m so overqualified for with my training/teaching/stable management background it’s like having a Doctorate in Kindergarten Counting. The pay was crap, but I’d strip as often as I do now, and I miss the horses and the farm and smelling like hay and being ankle-deep in soggy manure. She’d already filled the position.

Stable work isn’t easy to come by, unless I’d be willing to hit the track for awhile this spring, exercising strung-out and drugged racehorses and risking devastating injury on an hourly basis. My adrenaline crave and masochism isn’t quite that out of control.

Sunrise, now. I could use a few more hours of sleep before I get entirely lost in the vortex of thinking about What I Want Have to Be When I Grow Up.


~ by The Stiletto-Shod One on February 12, 2013.

One Response to “Insatiability and My Goldilocks-Mindfuck”

  1. I can say, worrying about the future has been in my head the past 5 years.

    I turn 30 near the end of this year.

    I am only JUST getting my head wrapped around what I want to do and have been spending the past 2 years or so. It is something I do regret taking so long to get my head straight…

    … but the fact that you ARE thinking about this now? Its a good thing. I don’t know if it helps, but you have my best wishes for your future miss.

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