Funk and futility
I’m moody. Just in general, I mean: I’m a moody person. The past week or two, a funk has been on the horizon, and I think it made landfall today.
Do you ever feel a cold coming on for days or even weeks, and you get so tired of feeling like you’re on the verge of getting sick that when you wake up one morning with a full-on sore throat, you’re actually a little bit happy, because you don’t have to wait around anymore, and you’re that much closer to actually feeling better?
I thought the funk was because I was working on an especially awful project in my day job, the kind of project that I dragged out over many days instead of just getting it over with, because just getting it over with meant actually working on it, and I couldn’t bear to do that. I finally did, though, yesterday. Work on it, that is. So much that I actually finished it, and I was in a good mood for much of the afternoon.
Quiet before the storm.
Today, I’m tired and bored and looking at every glass as though it’s broken—forget half-empty. I forced myself to go out and photograph a little today, and for the forty-five minutes or so that I was out there, it was good. (One night recently, in the midst of this building funk, I actually pulled out my camera and just sat there watching TV with my camera in my lap. I felt better.)
They’re obvious, the reasons for all this: I’m so sick of my day job that the woman in line in front of me at the 7-Eleven today who was buying an insane number of lottery tickets actually seemed smart. Hatred is not too strong a word for the feeling I have about my job right now. And to top it all off, I’m actually pretty good at my job. (Being good at something you hate, now there’s misery for you.) This feeling about work is draining me of all energy. So when I do have some free time, time to do with what I please, I don’t feel like doing anything. Plus, I know it sounds crazy, but I’m really worried about the campaign, and I care so much about it that it weighs on me. (I know I’m not alone: S. said he got up three times in the middle of the night thinking about it himself.)
FYI: Michael Clayton, though a really good movie, is not something to watch with the blinds drawn on a sunny Saturday afternoon. I watched George Clooney riding in that cab while the credits rolled, watched the thoughts on his face, and all I could think was how futile it all is.
If you knew me, you’d know how funny this is: futility and I in the same sentence. I’m like the most industrious person you’ll ever meet. (That “like” in there . . . that’s because I Netflixed My So-Called Life and have been watching that for the past few weeks. There’s another thing: Sure, there are scenes where I relate to the forty-year-old parents. But at thirty-four, I still get Angela Chase better than I get Graham and Patty. How am I thirty-four when I still feel fifteen?)
I think feeling all dark and depressed serves a purpose in my life. I need periods like this to figure things out. And the thing is, these moods, they do pass. When I was fifteen, I didn’t know that. So, I guess, I’m not exactly the same as I was then. But still.
Do you ever feel a cold coming on for days or even weeks, and you get so tired of feeling like you’re on the verge of getting sick that when you wake up one morning with a full-on sore throat, you’re actually a little bit happy, because you don’t have to wait around anymore, and you’re that much closer to actually feeling better?
I thought the funk was because I was working on an especially awful project in my day job, the kind of project that I dragged out over many days instead of just getting it over with, because just getting it over with meant actually working on it, and I couldn’t bear to do that. I finally did, though, yesterday. Work on it, that is. So much that I actually finished it, and I was in a good mood for much of the afternoon.
Quiet before the storm.
Today, I’m tired and bored and looking at every glass as though it’s broken—forget half-empty. I forced myself to go out and photograph a little today, and for the forty-five minutes or so that I was out there, it was good. (One night recently, in the midst of this building funk, I actually pulled out my camera and just sat there watching TV with my camera in my lap. I felt better.)
They’re obvious, the reasons for all this: I’m so sick of my day job that the woman in line in front of me at the 7-Eleven today who was buying an insane number of lottery tickets actually seemed smart. Hatred is not too strong a word for the feeling I have about my job right now. And to top it all off, I’m actually pretty good at my job. (Being good at something you hate, now there’s misery for you.) This feeling about work is draining me of all energy. So when I do have some free time, time to do with what I please, I don’t feel like doing anything. Plus, I know it sounds crazy, but I’m really worried about the campaign, and I care so much about it that it weighs on me. (I know I’m not alone: S. said he got up three times in the middle of the night thinking about it himself.)
FYI: Michael Clayton, though a really good movie, is not something to watch with the blinds drawn on a sunny Saturday afternoon. I watched George Clooney riding in that cab while the credits rolled, watched the thoughts on his face, and all I could think was how futile it all is.
If you knew me, you’d know how funny this is: futility and I in the same sentence. I’m like the most industrious person you’ll ever meet. (That “like” in there . . . that’s because I Netflixed My So-Called Life and have been watching that for the past few weeks. There’s another thing: Sure, there are scenes where I relate to the forty-year-old parents. But at thirty-four, I still get Angela Chase better than I get Graham and Patty. How am I thirty-four when I still feel fifteen?)
I think feeling all dark and depressed serves a purpose in my life. I need periods like this to figure things out. And the thing is, these moods, they do pass. When I was fifteen, I didn’t know that. So, I guess, I’m not exactly the same as I was then. But still.
Labels: actors, Barack Obama, day job, George Clooney, politics, S.
posted by Liz at 5:19 PM
8 Comments:
"Being good at something you hate, now there’s misery for you." - I think now is the time to read Orwell's "Keep the aspidistra flying". I read that by accident while down with a migrane, and boy, that was pure, hard misery. But.... it also has a main character who hates what he's good at. And mind you, no redemption at the end, just a defeat, a giving up and giving in. Want me to send this you?
It's always time for Orwell, isn't it? Sure, send it my way! I'd be thrilled.
I suppose, in the interest of full disclosure, I should note that I'm in a much better mood today. Not all grim and defeatist. I can only keep that up for a little while, and then, like a fever, it breaks, and I move on. But this is probably all the more reason why reading Orwell now would be a good thing.
Thanks, Norman and/or Hester. (I can never tell which one of you is doing the writing at any given moment. Pretty cool thing you've got going there.)
You really want me to? Send me a mail with your address and I'll send you the tatty pocket with the yellow pages. It looks like it will decompose gracefully on your compost heap once you're done with it.
As to who's doing the writing: mrs. deane is of course, our personal virtual spiritistic medium ;-)
Deja vu, in reverse. I seem to remember you commenting on one of my blogs when I was in a similar funk. :) (And is it humorous to anyone else, that my funk came from losing my contract for the job I was really stinkin' good at, but hated to the depth of my bones?) The truest form of misery is getting your value from something you hate. And that, at least, is not your problem, my talented friend. :)
You know, now that I think about it, I could buy it from Amazon for less than it would cost you to ship it, so I'll just do that instead. Plus, I don't have a compost heap. ;)
Thank you for the generous offer, though, Mrs. Deane. You're cool.
Shannon, totally. Believe me, if I lost this job, the funk would be even worse. Nothing like going bankrupt to really ruin a mood. ;) Good point about the misery/value thing. You're so right.
..try being unemployed for 3 months because of circumstances completely out of your control (thanks
again WGA!).. As you noted it could always be worse..
Yeah, that's the thing with a funk, though: When you're in it, you think you've got it worse than anybody. And, of course, the moment you're out of the funk, you feel like a fool for focusing on what you don't have instead of on what you do.
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