Tales from the Gym- Part the Third

Deciding to make the best of an irksome situation, our hero said "fuck it," and went to the gym in the wee hours of the morning, while the rest of the world slept. Under the passive gaze of the moon, he set forth on his trusty steed, Bike, and rode through the mostly empty streets towards that wonderland of iron, sweat, and cardio machines.

That's right! It's time for another TALES FROM THE GYM!!!

So, this morning was interesting. Nothing too strange happened, but I did learn a few things while I was on my epic quest to repetitiously lift and lower heavy objects. For instance:

1. The Police have Nothing to Do.
As I was riding along, minding my own business, heading to the gym and GLORY, I was accosted by a random patrolman. This individual with the badge was driving in the opposite direct I was riding, but felt that he needed to discuss something with me, so he turned around and followed me through the empty parking lot of the Alderwood Mall, which is right next to 24 Hour Fitness. Since I didn't respond to him tailing me, he decided to get my attention by flashing his Super Cool Police Strobe Lights and pulling ahead of me, forcing me to stop. As if we were in some kind of police chase on an episode of Cops.

Being the law-abiding citizen I am, I stopped- my instinct was to ride around him while yelling, "Learn how to drive, pork chop!- but pissing off the bacon was not my priority this particular morning. I plastered a pleasant smile on my face and waited to see what the good officer of the law required.

"Do you know how fast you were going?"

"Where are you off to?" He asked me with faux politeness. Because apparently, riding a bike in the middle of the night is cause for concern by the cops; I'm certain that if I had been driving a car, this little interrogation wouldn't have happened.

"The gym, officer," I said, pointing at 24 Hour Fitness, which was less than 100 yards away. I made an effort to keep my tone of voice light, which wasn't easy; my penchant for answering stupid questions with scathing sarcasm has gotten me in trouble many a time- though thankfully never with the cops. "I've got some extra energy to burn tonight, and thought I'd hit up the weights."

The officer studied me for a moment, no doubt processing my words and looking for something wrong with them. Finally he said, "Just so you know, there's a Helmet Ordinance in this county. I don't really pay it much mind, but I thought you should know."

Okay, that's actually good to know. The issue I take with it is that if this officer doesn't care about it, like he just said, why did he feel compelled to turn around and follow me through an empty mall parking lot? I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe he wasn't profiling me (it's happened before, sadly) and assume he's just bored.

"Really? I wasn't aware of that. Thanks for letting me know, sir." You see, I can be respectful when I have to be. The officer nodded and bid me good morning. Bemused, I watched him pull out into the street and drive off, before continuing on my merry way. So, I also learned:

2. I need to get a helmet.
 Otherwise, I'll be regularly pestered by police officers with nothing better to do than flag down innocent bikers. Granted, I do need to pick up a helmet, but I haven't found the right one yet. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find My Little Pony bike helmets that fit my magnificent head?

The streamers will make my bike go faster.

3. I LOVE working out in the Wee Hours.
Holy crap, the gym is a completely different place at 3 am. During that time of day, I can literally count the number of gym patrons on two hands, and it is awesome! In the morning there are no crowds. I don't have to dodge and weave around a million other sweating, exhausted people as I try and get a decent work out.
There are no lines. No waiting to use the squat rack or bench press- which are always in use, because those are the only two exercises people know how to use, apparently- and there is no shortage of dumbbells; nothing is more aggravating than having to wait around for some overly-muscled thug to finish using half of the dumbbells in the gym at once. And no, I'm not exaggerating; it's called pyramid lifting, where you perform each set with a different weight and number of repetitions; it's an awesome way to build muscle, but so very annoying for anyone else who happens to need a set of dumbbells.

All of these are being used by one guy.

It's truly liberating to have access to all the equipment at will, with no waiting around. No hurrying through your lifts because that sweat-drenched dude is giving you the stink eye and tapping his foot impatiently. Granted, when someone does that to me, I intentionally slow down because Fuck You Chump. But that's beside the point. Not having to waste my disdain on gym goers allows me to spend it on other people who might deserve it. It's called efficiency, people.

After getting in an awesome leg workout, the trusty steed and I headed home- without incident, I might add- to a post workout meal and relaxation. I'm definitely going to have to start going to lift after work rather than before; weight training before work leaves me exhausted through my entire shift, and I desperately need to be at my peak when things get insane. Which they do almost everyday, because why should I have an easy time? Nah, fuck that.

Untenable Circumstances

For the past year or so, I've experienced a growing sense of dissatisfaction. Not the general frustrations that this wonderful world manages to conjurer up. No, I mean a specific, elusive something or lack of something that has been festering in the back of my mind, growing like mold on the loaf of 100% whole wheat bread you bought and promptly forgot about because you aren't in the mood for sandwiches.

Kind of like this.

I didn't finally notice it until an opportunity came up at work. A few new shifts had opened up, and one of them was PERFECT. 8:30am to 5pm, Tuesday-Friday. With that shift, I could work and then have enough day left over for an actually social life! I could go out at night and see movies or dance or whatever folks do in the evenings.  Plus, I would have the weekends off, which means that I could interact with other people during the times they're off work. In addition, working 32 hours would qualify me for benefits- medical and dental insurance would be mine!

Eagerly, I informed my boss of my desire- nay need - for this shift.

Of course I didn't get it.

No indeed. You see, shift changes are on a seniority basis- the longer you've been there, the more likely you get the shift. Almost everyone wants to work normal, human hours, mostly for the same reasons I mentioned. And I'm one of the newest employees...

So yeah, I didn't get it. And it gets worse. Instead of what I actually wanted, I instead got the least desirable shift out of the options presented to me. I shall have my long coveted 32 hours and the nifty benefits that entails. But I'm still stuck working nights, and I lose out on my Sunday. That basically means I have no weekend, and what little social interactions I have will wither faster than my manhood dipped in ice water.

As vexing as that is, I'll get over it. No, the real pain isn't from that kick in the crotch, but rather the two painfully throbbing aftershocks it compels me to endure.

"Enough of the groin metaphors!"

1. It has forced me to realize just how dissatisfied I am having my nights taken up by work. I've been working evenings for about 4 years now, and I don't like it. By the time I get off work, the general populace is safely tucked into their beds, experiencing blissful dreams about puppies or vacations or boobs. I'm usually dragging myself off to dreamland by the time those same people are waking up and heading to work.

Now I suppose I could go to sleep when I get home from work. That would allow me some potential social interactions while the sun is in the sky. But that presents its own problems; I would be pooped by the time I went to my long, eight hour shift at my somewhat stressful job, and being tired when I'm at work is a special kind of Hell. And it still wouldn't solve the problem of doing fun activities with like minded individuals ( or friends, as they are sometimes called), because I would be going to work when they are getting off.

2. With the realization of how much I hate evening shifts came recognition of why I hate them. As long as I'm stuck working late, I will never be able to realistically pursue my acting career. For that was the ultimate goal of moving away from Alaska; I should be out there performing. Instead, I've let the banal trivialities of the day to day grind bog me down as if I were trudging through the murkiest quagmire imaginable.

Well, almost the murkiest quagmire...

Too much of theatre happens at night; auditions, rehearsals, and the actual performances happen at night, with few exceptions. It's basically impossible to get back in the game with my current schedule. And that just won't do.

Finding good paying employment was supposed to be just a stepping stone towards my eventual goal- a means to an end. Somehow, I got sidetracked, and the goal became obfuscated by a myriad of annoying minutiae, buzzing around my head like gnats.

As I lay here, on the ground in the fetal position, clutching futilely at nuts smashed into ruined oblivion, I can't help but ponder the issue. I'm faced with a quandary. What do you do when the means no longer supports the end, but instead interferes with it?

This about sums it up.

Sick, tired, and restless.

I called in sick to work today. I woke up and just felt...icky. A light pounding in my head, right behind the eyes, accompanied by a sort of queasy sensation radiating from my gut. It isn't that bad; I probably could have made it in to work, but I honestly didn't want to chance it; illness is born and festers in that tiny little sick box that I work in; at any time, four to seven human beings sit in relatively close quarters, breathing the same air, coughing and sneezing everywhere, and touching stuff. All the hand sanitizer in the world couldn't prevent illness from spreading around in that room.

I could have gone in today. But being the reasonably intelligent individual that I am, I decided my health (and that of my co-workers) is more important. So I stayed home, buried myself in a thick blanket, and alternated between some light reading and napping. The down side is I'll probably be up all night, and I will be going in to work tomorrow; being one of the working poor, I have little choice in the matter.

Still, I find myself being in the vexing situation of being tired and feeling yucky, yet also restless; I desperately want to move about and do stuff, but I find that getting out of bed drains me of energy faster than a suitable metaphor involving an activity that's overly taxing.

Yo.

But seeing as we've entered the second week of the new year, and I'm bored and restless, I figured I'd choke back my urge to vomit, ignore the minor aches and pains, sit down and write. And  today's subject is *drum roll*... an update on my resolutions!!

"Animal showed up for this?!"

I know, I know, I already did an entry talking about the various goals I'll probably crash and burn. Well, tough. It's my blog and I'll be repetitive if I want to!

I've decided the best way to keep myself on track is to regularly post updates on this here blog. That's right kids, you'll be hearing me drone on and on and on and on about the same subjects! Cool, right? So basically I'll be doing what every other blog does. Original, I know. I'm known far and wide for my awesome creativity and uniqueness.

So...

I've completed my first week back in the gym. Not having been in some months, I've naturally noticed a decrease in strength and endurance. I've decided to ease back into being a gym rat, and my workouts this first week have reflected that; I'm really trying to focus on proper form and building a solid foundation before I get heavily into it.

For this first month or so, I'm going to hit every major muscle group once a week, and have a single day of light cardio. I'll be going lighter than I normally would to get my muscles back into it, as well as to solidify my form.

One particular issue I will be devoting much of my attention to (outside of melting down the rolls of flab I'm carrying) are my hips and core. I have what I'd like to refer to as Old Man Hips; my poor hip flexors have always been weak, puny things. Even as a child, I found sitting cross legged uncomfortable. As an adult who spends the majority of his time sitting down, it's naturally gotten even worse; eight hours spent in a chair at work, followed by several more hours spent in front of a computer or 360 or PS3 has absolutely ruined my hips.

Now whenever I stand, I can feel my glutes tensed up, trying to compensate for the fact that my hip flexors and core are too weak to keep me standing straight. Which, by the way, I don't do; I notice myself leaning forward whenever I'm distracted, and have to consciously adjust my posture.

"Me too!"

I'm short enough. I don't need to lose a few precious inches by having a perpetual slouch. And don't forget the inevitable back issues if this keep up.

So yeah, that's fun!

I'm also pleased to report that I've been following through another of my resolutions and writing more. I've finally gotten around to finishing up a short story that's been gathering dust on my hard drive. Well, not finishing so much as working on it. But hey, baby steps. It'll get done sooner or later. I hope.

Okay, that's not very encouraging. I'm trying, dammit.

Evolve Or Die

First off, let me get the obligatory Happy New Year cheer out of the way:

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

There. Now that that's done with, we can get to the real reason I'm writing this particular blog entry; for that matter, the real reason people get so excited and festive about this time of year, every year, since humanity started tracking and recording the passage of time:

No, not booze. That's a close second.

The New Year means it's time to make Resolutions! And everyone loves making those. Literally millions of people go through this fun ritual each year. They sit down, faces frozen in a thoughtful frown while they pensively review their lives and what needs to be eliminated, altered, or improved, and how to go about it. Once they've pinpointed those niggling little wrinkles in the glorious tapestry of their lives, they stand up proudly and declare to themselves and the universe at large: "This year, I will do/change ----- !"

And they'll mean it

But more often than not, that drive, that energy will fizzle out faster than your brain cells at a political debate; I estimate that by the end of January, 83% of all New Year's Resolutions will have been swept under the rug as energy and drive are overcome by the banality of 9 to 5 jobs, picking the kids up from school, or the fact that you're a lazy git with no ambition.

Wow, that came out a lot more gloomy than I intended. Believe it or not, pointing out the failings of others is not my goal in this particular entry (that comes later); rather, I'm laying out the grim cycle of Declare and Fail that plagues many individuals at this time of year, myself included. My purpose isn't to deride and mock, but rather to remind myself of just what can very easily happen.

For this year I have a large number of resolutions, and I want, no, I need them to succeed. Because 2013 sucked. This past year has sucked so very hard, and a lot of it had to do with my own failings. Not all of it; cruel circumstance and a staggering amount of outside forces have played their hand. But in the end, I can only blame myself.

The grim truth of the matter is that I cannot continue on as I have been. Changes need to be made, old patterns need to be revised, and I need a new outlook. Because I'm rapidly approaching a point at which the nihilistic tendencies that wiggle about in the back of my mind will gain a solid foothold, and I'll be done. Not suicidal or any of that nonsense, but something fairly close: numbly living day to day with no dreams or ambitions, waiting for the end to come.

Okay, that came out sounding even worse than my resolution diatribe; melodrama personally makes my teeth ache, but that doesn't seem to stop me from doing it. But that actually provides me with the perfect segue to the next part: the listing of some of my resolutions! Damn, I'm a genius!

My Resolutions:

Enough of the Melodrama- I don't think I need to go into too much detail, since I just demonstrated how tiresome this habit of mine can be; I'm sure all who have known me for a while will be grateful for this resolution.

Vaguebooking- As defined by Urban Dictionary, "An intentionally vague Facebook status update that prompts friends to ask what's going on." I'm sure I'm guilty of doing this a time or two, but I see it all the time on Facebook, as well as emails, texts, and in personal conversations. I hate that shit. From now on, I'm not doing that and I will no longer respond to it; I'm not a fish, you don't need to use bait in order to talk to me about something. If you want to talk, let's talk. But opening statements like "here we go again," or "that was weird" will go unanswered.

Getting in Shape- Let's do a maths equation, you guys! What does mindless snacking + depression + a job where I sit for 8 hours add up to? The answer is some serious SANTA BELLY. You'll notice the words are big and black, just like my body right now; I had to go out and buy new pants because I can't fit into my others pairs. I've also noticed that I'm a little out of breath when I climb the steps. Make no mistake, this is a problem. Gaining a pound here or there is one thing, but I've let things go too far; no matter what I wear, my stomach sticks out like Eddie Murphy at a Klan meeting.

"Hi there!"

The Write Stuff- I've got accept that fact that my muse is not going to actually do its job and rain inspiration down on me; at this point, I'm not even sure she's still around. For all I know, that bitch is cheating on me with some other struggling creative type; she and that other loser's muse are probably in the middle of a fantastic creative sex orgy, squeezing out ideas the way the Octomom births children.

She's full of ideas.

So I need to cut my loses and accept the fact that I'll actually have to *work* at being a good writer. Lame.



Get a Life- To say that I have a case of Cabin Fever would be an understatement; my reclusive habits have reached an all time high. My excursions for the past year have mostly been limited to going to work or grocery shopping. What few friends I have in this town, I see infrequently. Obviously, this is not healthy.
So, I'm going to get out of the house more. Maybe pursue a hobby or several that I've been thinking about. Hell, maybe even do some acting.


So to wrap this up, let me just say that changes are on the horizon. This year is going to be great! Because I am going to force greatness down its throat the way you had to choke down your veggies as a child. 2014 is going to complain about the taste and make faces, but it will eat its damn greens. Or it will be eating my fist as I punch it in the mouth.

Confession time, folks.

I must have spent close to an hour staring at my computer screen, waiting for words to spontaneously ooze from my brain meats, travel down to my fingers, and then transfer to the blank Word document. Despite my protest, that didn't happen.

Originally I was going to discuss some drama that I experienced this past week at work, but I decided against it for the time being; while I have no problem talking about the incident, I do know that a few of my co-workers have access to my Facebook and thus my blog, and it wouldn't do to make a bad situation worse by talking about it. So as the great Bard Billy Shakespeare once said, "Seal up your lips and give no words but mum." 

"Preach on, brother."

You get bonus points if you can tell me which of Shakespeare's works that line comes from without using google or wikipedia.

So with my first idea for a blog entry cancelled, I found myself in the vexing situation of wanting to write, but having no subject matter. That is sadly an all too common occurrence with me; the spirit is willing, but the brain sucks a Krogan Quad.

"Go on..."

With that being said, I thought I'd give a general update on what's been going on in the insanely awesome world of Darren.

To summarize, the only awesome thing happening in my world right now is me. Everything else seems to have decided to get together and SUCK. I know I throw that word and others of its ilk around a lot, but I really mean it this time. Things are pretty bad right now.

In the order of the least SUCKTASTIC to the most:

1. My social circle has been cut in half. One of the few friends I have in this city is moving to Spokane, the armpit of Washington State, to go to college. Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled he has a goal that he seems to be passionate about, but it kind of sucks for me. He's a recluse who has no problems spending everyday indoors playing video games or browsing the interwebs, so he'll be fine with friends. I, on the other hand, am a social animal (I know, right? Who knew?).

2. My financial situation becomes more and more untenable; student loan repayments, rent, bills, and food are sucking my paychecks up faster than I can save them. As it stands, I don't have the money for all the things I desperately need, such as my own place or a car. Looks like I'll be living went family for years to come.

3. My creative well seems to have dried up for the most part. I'm sitting on a few short stories that aren't going anywhere. Hell, even writing the blog has been difficult, as you can plainly see from the wide gap between updates. I try to power through and write something, but nothing happens. I feel...thin. Sort of stretched, like butter scrapped over too much bread. I need a holiday, guys. A very long holiday.

"That's MY line!"

Which brings me to:

4. The Thanksgiving Disaster. The whole family (My mother, older brother, younger brother, his girlfriend and their three kids, and yours truly) decided to go and visit my Grandma down in our home town of Kansas City, Mo. I cannot express the disdain I feel for that city. The sheer, venomous loathing that wells up from the pit of my stomach.

Kansas City is a disgusting cesspool filled with every negative black stereotype you've ever heard of, and some you haven't; ignorant thug wannabe's gleefully run the streets mugging and robbing folks for whatever they have. The public school system is an absolute disgrace; I was considered a nerd by the other students because I managed a C average in the brief 10 months I went to High School there before my Mother wisely decided we should move back to Alaska before I was killed. And no, I'm not joking; I had a gun pulled on me 14 times *on school property* by various knuckle-dragging primates determined to prove how tough and cool they were.

I could go on, but I'm sure you get the idea. I will sum up by saying this: Kansas City is a filthy pile of concrete and has the highest homicide rates in the entire country. It's worse than Detroit and lacks the star power.

Had Obi-wan ever visited Kansas City, he would have revised his opinion of Mos Eisley.

"You will never find a more pleasant neighborhood of polite, honorable heroes. And the housing market is excellent."

As you can imagine, my enthusiasm for returning to the city of my birth was nil. I can honestly say that every time I set foot in that city, bad things happen. And my streak continued. While we were there, my Little Brother managed to piss off and basically alienate the entire family, my three month old niece caught pneumonia and had to be rushed to the ER, I only managed about 9 hours of sleep the entire four days I was there, and my Grandpa's wallet was stolen.

5. And finally, the reason for our trip: my Grandma doesn't have much time. For 10 years now, she's been fighting a losing battle with cancer. She's been holding out well, but it seems it's gotten worse. Now she's feeling pain where there was none before. And she's tired. We can all see it; the only reason she continues chemo is for our sake.

Last week she had to go to the ER because she was having trouble breathing. Her red blood cell count was low, and there was signs of internal bleeding. She had to have a blood transfusion, and thankfully they found the source of the bleeding and fixed it. But things are grim. I honestly don't know if I'll ever see her again. But I suppose that's just existential truth.

So, that's pretty much it! A lot of stuff going on in the life of Me, and almost all of it SUCKS. I'm trying that thing where I'm positive and wait for the shit storm to blow over. It's difficult; my positive muscles are not unlike the fat kid in gym class who was forced to run a mile by himself because all the other kids managed to finish theirs a half an hour earlier.

That was a lot of depressing, unhappy subject matter, so here's a picture of an adorable kitten. Don't say I never did anything for you.

The Worst Mistake

Going to college is without a doubt the worst mistake I've ever made.

I didn't want to go originally. In fact, I had planned on avoiding it. But a good friend of mine convinced me that not going to college would doom me to a life coasting from shit, low paying job to shit, low paying job. In fact, I remember his exact words: "Dude, you can either spend the rest of your life working some shitty minimum wage job, or you can go to college."

That ill-fated conversation still rings in my head to this day. So thanks for that. You know who you are.

But once I seriously considered the idea, I grew excited.

Like many an ignorant youth, I was brought up on the idea that going to college would be good for me; a great education, new friends, some parties, and as a cherry on top of that supposed Awesome Sundae, I would receive a shiny piece of paper proclaiming to world the incredible might of my brain meat.

Afterwards, employment opportunities would rain from the heavens, money would flow freely, and I could live happily ever after flying around the world in my private jet.

That sounds awesome, right? Of course it does.

What I got was the exact opposite of awesome. The college scene is highly exaggerated. Being the simpleminded youngster I was, I didn't realize that. But I quickly discovered my ideas of higher education were *ahem* flawed. My classes, rather than being the fonts of wisdom I envisioned, were for the most part a big waste of time and money; especially money, but I'll get to that. I can honestly say that within a week of the semester ending 80% of the information I learned in nearly all of my classes seeped out of my ear like rancid snot. I don't know whose at fault for that colorful imagery; the American Education System, the inability of my professors to motivate me to really learn the material, or the fact that I could give two fucks about some bullshit required course that had no meaning to my life goals and would have exactly zero usefulness in that frightening place adults called the Real World.

Regardless, I found myself increasingly dissatisfied with my education.

The social scene was little better than it was in high school; I found a small group of people who shared my interests and clung to them like the neediest sloth to the worlds most comfortable branch. Outside of that tiny circle, I associated with people as little as possible. So just like high school, I was in a clique. And so was everyone else for that matter., so nothing new there.

And worse of all, I got no shiny piece of paper. Yes folks, I never graduated.

There are a myriad of reasons (or excuses) why I never got my Magic Paper of Awesome. And since I know you're interested, I'll share. Aren't I such a nice guy?

Reason the First: The administration was complete shit. All they were good for was near constant increases in tuition and every other little added fee they could slip in; the price of housing, the meal plan with its inedible swill, the on-campus activities and events all went up in price and down in quality. And any major decision was met with delay after delay. If I didn't know better, I could have sworn that the university was being run by congress.

All in favor of as inept as humanly possible, say "Aye."

Reason the Second: The Hiring Freeze. During a ghastly three semesters, we were without an official Technical Theatre professor. That might not sound like such a big deal, except that I was a theatre major and I kinda need my technical theatre credits! How cool does it sound to have to sit and wait for the Admin's to get their shit together and provide the students with a teacher so they can complete their major?! Stage Construction, Lighting Design, Sound Design, and Production were all things I needed to learn, and yet could not.

Reason the Third: I didn't need college for my career goal. Ever since I stumbled into my first drama class in middle school, I've wanted to be an actor. Naturally, being young and dumb, I figured the next logical step after high school productions would be college. It wasn't until I faced my pointless delay in receiving my technical theatre credits did I realize that I didn't actual need a degree to act. I had at that point been acting fairly regularly in shows around town. It then hit me that the best way to learn how to act was to go out and act. Audition, work on monologues, see plays, and read.
Don't get me wrong, I did learn how to act while in college; I took every acting class offered, and then some. I had great professors who taught me how to come out of my shell and really perform. But looking back, I could have done that without enrolling in college and wasting thousand of dollars struggling to fulfill course requirements that were unnecessary.

So I quit. And now I suffer the consequences of my foolishness in the form of student loan payments.

My college career has racked up quite the bill, and I now find myself being slowly crushed under the weight of all that debt. Like poor Atlas forever condemned to bear the weight of the celestial sphere, I feel that I'll be forced to endure a life time of this nightmare. For years I've been going through one crap job after another, unable to afford payments; some years, eating and making the rent has been a challenge. And of course, as I run and hide from my doom, it persists, eternally the Pepe Le Pew to my Penelope Pussycat.

Dealing with this debt is causing me serious anxiety, and I don't know how much of it I can take. I'm so sick and tired of having the Sword of Damocles looming over my head. As it stands now, rent, bills, food and transportation plus my loans leaves me barely able to live, let alone save money. And if something serious comes up, like a trip to the hospital or an early release of Kingdom Hearts 3, I'm absolutely boned.

And I have no real options.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Autumn is officially here. The air is crisp with the precursor to winters chill. The trees weep tears of gold and orange and brown. This is probably my favorite time of year; wrapping myself up snug in a blanket, with a mug of hot chocolate in one hand and a good book in the other, I feel more relaxed than at any other time of year. I also get reflective, as I'm sure many others do. So I find myself contemplating years past and dreams unfulfilled. I have a question for you:

What do you want to be when you grow up?

When I was a child, I wanted to be an environmental scientist. At the time, Captain Planet was my favorite television show. I'd record every episode on vhs tapes and watched them over and over and over again. I'm pretty sure my mom got sick of me running around the house, yelling "go planet!" at all hours. I'd give stern lectures to the neighborhood kids about the selfishness of littering, of how their waste was killing the planet.

As you can imagine, I didn't make many friends.

Time went by, and I mostly grew out of that phase. Or rather, I just became more subtle. I realized after a while that no one likes being preached at, no matter how worthy the cause; get in peoples faces enough, and they'll eventually hate whatever you endorse. After all, no one likes being told what to do and how to think.

Eventually I changed my mind about becoming an environmental scientist (whatever that is); while I slipped the bonds of sheer fanaticism, I'm happy to say that I didn't loss the desire to save the world. I still care about the environment, and as a result am far less anthropocentric than the majority of people I know. Anthropocentrism is one of the roots of my misanthropy, but that's a rant for another day.

When I was in middle school, and just entering my teen years, I joined a drama class on a lark (and by lark, I mean I needed a creative arts credit) and discovered the grand world of acting. And during that year, my desire changed.

"When I grow up," I thought to myself. "I want to be an actor."

In that nearly forgotten drama class, I discovered a side of myself that I was previously unaware of. For the first time since I was little hell raiser, I had found something I could be passionate about again. In a play, I could fall into someone else's life; like a shapeshifter, I could assume a different form. I could be a king, or a murderer or beggar or a god. At times it was hard. But it was always fun.

I carried that passion with me when I went to high school. I fell in with the theatre nerds, and felt right at home. It was a wonderful time in my life; my greatest concern was getting to class on time, and cramming for a random test that I had forgotten about (ignored) until the day before. After classes ended, it was off to the theatre department to rehearse or goof off. It was good times.

College was a rude awakening for me. My faith in my acting ability was cracked when I witnessed people with far greater ability than myself perform; I was a guppie transported to a large lake, a lake with much bigger and hungrier fish. It was also in college that I discovered that awful truism that serves to shake the foundation of so many young actors: the business is a ruthless, cutthroat entity. Actors good and bad, with talents great, small and nonexistent all desperately struggled to climb to the top, to get roles and recognition.

Most don't.

Still, I held my own for a good long while. At first I auditioned and auditioned, only to be rejected time and time again. After a while, as my craft was polished and I became more skilled, I was cast in roles. Some bigger than others, but I was acting.

My downfall came once I allowed the prospects of going out into the cold, harsh world and plying my trade, of joining the rat race, of being lined up in a potentially endless parade of cattle calls and being judged suitable for a role based solely on how I looked or how tall I was or any number of details get the best of me. I let fear slip into my heart and take root.

And like that, I abandoned my second passion.

Oh, it's still there, burning like a feeble ember in a vast darkness. But I don't seem to have the courage to breath on it; doing so would mean having to actually try, and that's out of the question. My inner C-3PO keeps spouting the odds of success, and my inner Han Solo is absent, probably off somewhere making out with my inner Leia or shooting Greedo or whatever that charming bastard does when he isn't telling inner C-3PO to shut the hell up. Han is an ass.

Look at this smug bastard.

So what do I want to be when I grow up? At this point, I honestly don't know.