Over the last few years, aspects of my life have started to resemble that hard, sticky and seemingly permanent goopy black muck that forms on the bottom of a saucepan after you’ve willfully chosen not to lower the heat on your newest culinary experiment. The recipe, which called for medium heat twenty minutes ago, has been ignored because you, somehow knowing better than the directions written by a professional chef, didn’t think it sounded right. So, throwing caution to the wind, you forged ahead on medium-high heat until, with your basting spoon, you feel it; the volcanic layer of rock forming at the bottom of your pan. And in that moment you know full well the kind of elbow grease it’s going to take to alleviate the problem. The copious amounts of blood, sweat and tears you’re going to have to work through to make it go away. But then, just as you find yourself facing the difficult work ahead, you have a brilliant thought; “I’ll just fill the pot with some soap and water, and let it soak.” It is, after all, something that’s gotten the job done in the past. And in that glorious moment, you feel a little bit better with the state of things in your life.
Then, just a second later, you realize you’ve completely forgotten about what you had cooking in the oven. In your absolute panic about your stovetop creation, the second gastronomic delight you had coalescing there has also fallen victim to your grand neglect. As a result, it has devolved into a semi-solid sludge that covers another thick layer of the foul muck, which lies deceptively hidden at the pot’s bottom. The one-two punch of all this leaves you with nothing but feelings of disappointment, remorse, and self-loathing, along with two pots now in need of some serious help. And it’s all made categorically worse because your dinner, the one you had been looking forward to for ages, the one you so meticulously prepared for and less meticulously prepared, has been reduced to slop. So, instead of enjoying it, you munch on the stale saltines that have been lurking in single-serve packets at the back of your silverware drawer, all the while disposing of what could have been, in a better and kinder parallel dimension, two of the best dishes ever born from your kitchen. Afterwards, you prep the affected pans for soaking, and then, still hungry, with a raging case of cottonmouth from all the crackers, you crawl into bed, cry yourself to sleep, and wait for time do its work.
The next morning, you scrape at the bottom of your pots, and discover a negligible change, if any. So you decide to let them soak for a bit longer. After that, you change the water two or three times each day, marrying the soap with scalding hot tap water, telling yourself that this time it will make the difference. But after three days all the soap and water has barely made a dent. What has worked in the past is by no means working this time. No, this time, because you’re hilariously vulnerable and just need to move on with your life, you’re experiencing what ultimately amounts to an astounding defiance of the laws of physics. So you let them soak longer. But after five days submerged only the topmost layers have been softened, and even then, only very slightly. Friends who have come to visit you more than once over the course of that week have asked about your soaking pots. You reassure them it’s nothing to be concerned about. Time will do the trick, and all will be right again. But after the seventh day you’re no longer convinced of that yourself. You have started experiencing sudden and uncontrollable bouts of sobbing, and now, after each time you check your pots for progress and discover none, an outrageous string of colorful and entirely questionable language rockets out of you mouth with such speed and ferocity that you surprise even yourself. The pot soaking moves into a second week, then swiftly into a third, and finally, after fifteen complete days of soaking with no discernable difference in the state of your pots, you’re faced with the grim reality of your situation. Standing beaten and broken in front of your kitchen sink you finally understand: waiting for the problem to solve itself isn’t going to do a damn thing. Dues are mandatory and demanded. In order to really get rid of the muck once and for all you’re going to have to roll up your sleeves and penetrate the impenetrable. You’re going to have to actually do the work. You’re going to have to scrub and scrape and chisel until you can finally see what lies beyond that crap at the bottom of your pots.
I know what you’re thinking. Huh? Well, maybe now is a good time to stop talking in metaphors and analogies, and explain in some small way the make-up of my pot-muck. You want the recipes of what was in those pots at the moment of disaster, right? Yeah, I know what you want. Well, dear reader, I am here to please, and since you’re still with me, who am I to argue? It’s all just context for our eventual catharsis, right? Well, here they are:
In the oven…
CAREER CASSEROLE
Serves one (if all goes according to plan)
Ingredients
1 BIG dream of working in the entertainment industry (a dream you’ve had since you were a kid).
4 different jobs working in the aforementioned industry (none of them being exactly what you wanted, but you were learning and paying your dues).
1 job (also in the aforementioned industry, and after years of toiling at the other four) that you absolutely love (which in your mind could help lead you to realizing half, possibly all, of your ultimate goal) where you get to contribute to incredible projects, have amazing experiences, and feel like you’re really a part of something.
1 (personal) creative project development side-job (again, in the aforementioned industry, doing things that could possibly help you achieve the other half of your ultimate goal).
4 or 5 coworkers with whom you like working (like = adore. See: Highly functional work family that you would magnanimously work with until the end of time).
1 heaping mound of self-imposed career/life imbalance (Read: Other than spending limited time with a handful of trusted friends, social activities should be few and far between. Absolutely no dating, and under no circumstances is there to be any kind of romantic relationship. Your ever-developing anxiety, both generally and socially, should make this very easy to do).
1 unhealthy dose of a “work ALWAYS comes first” attitude (See above. You need to do an outstanding job, make a great impression, and succeed at whatever is given to you, right? How else do you expect to make it to where you ultimately want to go?)
5/100 teaspoon of networking and additional career development (your day job and working on your own projects is like totally a better use of your limited time).
1/100 teaspoon of career diversification (since you love working with the people you’re working with so very much, and that job, in some obtuse way, could possibly lead you to your ultimate goal, why not stay in it forever? You don’t need another job! No, moving out of that “incubator” and into another environment with different challenges won’t show potential future employers your greater worth − no, not at all. And magical fairies and the power of trickle-down economics are real).
Directions
Mix the top seven ingredients together until the job you love is eliminated. Try to make it doing only the thing you hoped would be the other half of your career. Stirring in your limited networking and career development, and lack of career diversification, find yourself adrift for a few years, taking temp and short-term jobs while looking for another full-time gig in line with what you had before. Do this until you discover your career is all but completely stalled. Finally, find a part-time job that you love just as much, one you’re extremely grateful for, and hope it will eventually become full-time. Once a thick paste of desperation and depression forms, pour the batter into a casserole pot, and bake on 350 degrees (while continuing to interview for full-time positions you seem perfect for, but never get). Stir everything up occasionally to make yourself feel extra lost.
On the stovetop…
RELATIONSHIP STEW
Hopefully serves two (that’s the goal, right?)
Ingredients
1 friend girlfriend friend girlfriend fiancée friend (who, for the most part, embodies everything you’ve ever looked for in a friend and/or [preferably] a romantic partner. Someone you had more fun with and loved infinitely more than any of the others).
1 ton of relationship tumult (See above. First you’re friends. Quickly, she becomes your best friend. Then you’re dating. Then you exist in some weird nether region between the two. Then you’re just friends again. Then you’re not friends anymore. Then it’s friends: the do-over. Then it’s best friends: the joyous sequel. Then she’s your girlfriend. Then she’s your fiancée and you’re living together. Then she’s not your fiancée and you’re living alone. Then she’s your friend once again, although it’s somewhat strained and kind of strange. Then she’s someone you haven’t seen in almost a year).
1 engagement ring (which now sits at the bottom of a box in the back of a closet. Read: So much for “happily ever after.” “Happily ever after” is a sham used to sell animated films).
10 months of replaying past events in your head, wondering what you could have done differently (because yeah, that’s super healthy).
10 months of missing your former fiancée/girlfriend/friend (Read: Thinking about her every single day, each day wondering when you won’t anymore, and when it’s going to get easier).
Tears to taste
Directions
Mix all the “dry” ingredients together in front of a window fan on “high” and desperately hope that everything doesn’t blow away. Add the tears. Mix well. Use a roller to flatten the mixture into a paper-thin sheet. Cut the sheet into strips and use them to construct a rudimentary ladder. Pray to God everything doesn’t fall apart as you build it. Take pictures as you go. When everything inevitably collapses, refer to the pictures often and wonder what could have been.
So, there you have it. Those are the ingredients that have, at this stage of my life, petrified at the bottom of my pots. The muck that now requires me to roll up my sleeves, and finally get down to the business of doing the work once and for all. I mean, how can I ever expect to cook again if I don’t? Now is the time to scrub. After a few years of trying to push past my problems, to plug in something similar to what I had before in both pots, I’ve realized I really just need to disengage. I need to get away from this energy, this place, and try to reset myself. I need to figure out what it is that I want, and if that is the same as what I wanted before. I need to air out, clear my head, and get a new handle on life. So I’ve come to the very simple, and enormously conservative conclusion of taking the a meandering road trip across the country to “find” myself again. I know. I don’t do anything in even a slightly small way. And yes, I watch way too many movies. (There, I said it before you did.)
So it is with all that in mind, dear reader, that we start this journey together. It’s time to hit the mucky road, and see what comes next.
Dislocated 