And Now, It's Time For Some *Perspective*

When one does not have a job (and greatly desires one) one must be careful to monitor one's attitude so as not to become trapped in a sinkhole of grievous self-pity. Much like taking an ibuprofen at the onset of a potentially blistering headache, Perspective can be a valuable tool in heading off the pathetic drenchings of self-pity (it really does have an odor and a vibe, and I haven't come across any cultures - in my semi-extensive research - on our planet that value this characteristic or find it in any way attractive). I have been making my own Perspective Lists a bit more during the latter half of 2008 (or, in other words since I got back from Greece and started my job search in earnest in late June), and by golly it freaking works. Here's one I pulled from my treasure trove of Perspective Lists.

Top 7 Reasons My Life Could Be Worse
(Gabi, Late August, 2008)

• My parents could have refused to take me in, feed me, occasionally take me to lunch, fill up my gas tank, and field requests during weekly shopping trips to the supermarket and Costco. (“Um, Moooommm, I don’t see the low-fat chocolate chip cookies in the bag! Did you forget them again? Do you need me to call you while you are at the supermarket to remind you? How could you forget them? I wanted some right now! I can't believe this is happening to me!”)

• I could have no legs, challenging my ability/desire to go on long walks to keep my sanity in check.

• I could be sleeping on a couch, instead of having my own room and a sizeable portion of the right-hand wall in my parents’ garage, which I have stacked high with boxes of my crap…occasionally feeling the rolling lumps of guilt for contributing to the clutter in the garage, where the Christmas Manger box set looms high, on the lookout throughout the year, on top of a storage closet, which I just know my Mom is going to make me set up this Christmas, and I won’t be able to say “No” because I live in her house and she buys me low-fat chocolate chip cookies.

• I could be addicted to heroin, which would be problematic and expensive, and possibly career limiting.

• I could live in a ghetto, challenging my ability/desire to go on long walks to keep my sanity in check, due to the risk of being someone’s spontaneous target practice. Instead, I live within 15 walking minutes of a Starbucks. They totally know me.

• I could be without a car, forced to take the bus – in Salinas (heavens to Betsey!) – just to get contact lense solution, or just to escape the house and re-assert my pretend independence if only for an hour.

• I could be a poor widow, in a developing country, living in a desolate, parched region of the country, without ready access to running water and electricity, forced to collect firewood to sell in order to feed my five children (with another one on the way), while I worry about their futures and their health, and sink deeper into a morass of depression and hell on Earth as I grow more intimate with the unforgiving features and vise-like grip of poverty’s embrace.

Gabi