 Here are a couple of things I know to be true. One, my first reaction to nearly any volatile situation is never the right one. And two, even when I succinctly and directly ask for what I need, there is still a damn good chance I won’t get it.
I wrote a few weeks ago about how I have taken on three new, major clients. There are some wonderful benefits, challenges and frustrations associated with each one. As expected. By and large, though, the frustrations are few, and I can already tell I’m going to rock them all. Eventually. The initial fear I experienced related to two of the three has all but dissipated. Those clients love me, and I’m kicking ass on their projects so far. But No. 3 is a different story. I still have a lot of anxiety about how in the hell I am going to successfully pull off the mission I’ve chosen to accept without royally fucking up at least a portion of it.
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 So I joined an online dating service a couple of months back at the urging of a friend who met her boyfriend there. It’s one that requires a paid subscription, which I hoped meant the quality of people on it was a little higher than say, WannaHookup.com.
Unfortunately, that has not proven to be entirely true for me. Early on, I was subjected to guys WAY out of my age range (either 25 or 65), who said only, “Let’s kick it” or “What’s up?” Until I figured out the filters, anyway. I participated in online dating many years ago, when it was still relatively new, and I was not impressed. The men I met did not look like their profile pictures, or they weren’t really single and just wanted some action on the side. Why I thought it would be different today, I don’t know. In two months on the site, I have ignored about 95 percent of the e-mails, winks and favorites I’ve received. In the first week, I felt so inundated and overwhelmed by the sheer number of messages that rolled in, I underwent a complete mental shutdown.  I am sunburned, scratched, scabby and inordinately sore. Like, when-I-sit-down-I-may-never-get-up-again sore. And I couldn’t be happier about it.
See, I spent about eight hours outside this past Saturday, and it was not to watch the Thunder Over Louisville air show at the waterfront, although I’m sure that was fun for people who like that sort of thing. No, I was doing my first major yard work blitz of the season. I was so excited about firing up my mower and dusting off my pruning implements that I had trouble falling asleep the night before. (I probably wouldn’t be in quite so much pain if I hadn’t let my personal trainer beat the shit out of me on both Friday AND Sunday, but I digress.) I mowed, edged, pulled weeds, cleaned up leaves and other rotting vegetation, took out the remains of dead tree all by myself, and trimmed ornamental grass and ground cover along my front sidewalk. My teenage son came out front at one point and, upon seeing me knee deep in a pile of monkey grass wielding garden shears, said dispassionately, “That looks like a really big job.” Gee thanks, kid.  It’s getting green out there, thankyoubabyJesus. And I don’t mean drive-a-Prius-and-recycle-gum-wrappers green. You’ve probably noticed that spring weather is finally starting to transform the browns and grays of winter into emerald hues and colorful blooms.
It’s about friggin’ time. I may have mentioned once or twice how much I loathe the cold. So right now, I seriously feel like a grumpy bear coming out of hibernation. This ol’ bear is hongray — for the sun on my shoulders, the warm pavement beneath my bare feet and the scent of peonies wafting under my nose. I’m SO ready to dig out my straw pool bag, fluff the beach towels and inspect my raft for leaks. Some of my happiest memories from childhood are set against the backdrop of sunbeams and sticky summer weather, so I always get a little nostalgic at the first chance the temps allow me to hang up my winter coat. Perhaps even a little over-eager, but what the hell.  Y’know that saying, “Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it?” Boy oh boy, did I get it. In this case, I’m talking about some work-related successes that came to pass last week.
I set a goal at the beginning of the year (barely three months ago, for anyone who doesn’t want to do the math) of scoring some recurring retainer business rather than continuing to operate on a project-to-project basis like I’ve been doing since I started this freelance gig in September 2012. “Retainer” means that I have clients on contract who pay me a set amount per month to do everything from event management to PR/marketing and social media. In a perfect world, these contracts are for a term of no less than six months. Up to now, I have been fortunate to garner plenty of work each month, I just never knew what it would be or where it would come from. It’s a precarious way to do business, but I had mentally prepared myself for the ebbs and flows of an unpredictable workload before I set out on my own.  I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I work out four to five times a week. I regularly care for my mental, spiritual and emotional health. I go to bed right after Jimmy Fallon’s monologue every night and get plenty of sleep.
I am boring as hell. The only vices I have left are caffeine and sugar. I love good coffee and milk chocolate. Sometimes together. Up until recently, I had no reason or desire to give either one up. Then I had the brilliant idea to start working with a new personal trainer. Who promptly told me I had to give up sweets — and any added sugar — for four weeks. The rat bastard. So for the past 10 days, I have taken the sugar out of my coffee (I’m keepin’ the damn coffee, though), and the candy, ice cream and cake out of my diet. He has given me some pretty strict guidelines on what I can eat and when, and I have to report in several times a day via text message. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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