When Complacency Rears it's Ugly Head

I'm on the plane to Chicago, talking to Shelia, before her second and third vodka tonic, about my reasons for this trip. I am going to a seminar at the Embassy Suites on Perianesthesia Nursing, my current work specialty. I explain-as quickly as I possibly can-about the extra certification I hold in the field and the hours of continuing education needed to maintain it. Thirty minutes later she says, "Sounds like that nursing is your main deal and theatre is your hobby." Ah, the words of wisdom from a lush.
I try to explain my way out of this label,"No, nursing is just the bread and butter, and I am just trying to get out of, blah, blah,blah" Yeah Heather, keep digging that hole.

So what or who am I? I know my purpose in a spiritual sense, I know why I am here on earth, but, looking back on the five years since graduating Theatre school, my actions in New York City would never lead someone to conclude that I am an actor. I've done one play, worked with an improv comedy group, and auditioned for a whopping four jobs. Of course light bulbs always flash in the brain while trapped in an aluminum tube seven miles high because your last thoughts as you plummet to earth in a fiery blaze should be about what you didn't do or what chances you didn't take.

I've taken more chances than I suppose I am alloted: skydiving, rock climbing, black diamond skiing, but have I ever devoted my life to my purported passion? I've risked bodily harm, but have I ever risked my emotional core. Nope, Nada, and Nil. During one semester in school, I quit my job and took financial aid to perform in two plays while carrying 20 hours of classes. That was safe devotion. New York City can beat the crap out you the same time it is ripping out your tender heart. So, why am I afraid? I love a good RUSH. This winter I went skiing more times than any other season and spent the rest of the time working. There was no time or money left for new headshots or dance classes. The surge I get from jumping out of a plane or slipping on a cliff two hundred feet high replaces what I am missing from pursing my true passion.

I've complained before about people seeking instant gratification at the exspense of the self and now I realize that's excatly what I've been doing. My job, compared to other nursing work I've done, is like a walk on fluffy clouds while wearing a halo. I love it and I make great money from it. Why would I want to be an extra on a movie set earning one-fourth my daily rate sitting around for the hope that I might be noticed. I decided to write my own stuff for me to perform at a grotty Manhattan pub, though I spend more time blogging and looking at pictures of good-looking men. Complacency has reared it's ugly head.

Complacency doesn't neccesarily have an ugly head nor is it a terrible place to live. It can be a happy zone, but soon the day to day bliss turns to yearning and I realize how I've wasted some precious time. I used to say that I had to grow into my look-I am not an ingenue; I used to say that I needed to lose weight-done that;I used to say I am not ready-never gonna happen. What the Fuck is wrong with me. It's time and I better act soon or I will be sitting in the rocking chair regretting a loveless and childless life. There is a reason I've made specific choices and I don't want to let them go in vain.

Okay so I'm going to get headshots and work on monolouges and take singing and dance lessons.
Can I take a nap first?

I knew there was a website for it. GO GOOGLE, GO

Do they shoot single people in Illinois?

I eat my free hotel breakfast in my hotel room while the movie Twister plays in the background. The clang of silverware tapping on ceramic dishes and the murmur of robust eaters filters in from the open dining area below. I was shunned from that place, so I eat alone. Ok, I know I'm taking a little dramatic license: the townspeople of the Embassy Suites, Chicago-O'Hare, did not brand me with an ornate and dark letter 'S', nor stand me in front of the omelet station to chuck stale watermelon at me. But, as I searched for table, I felt marked. The single people must be in bed sleeping off their hangovers from Saturday night’s Beer Fest and all the families, from the two weddings, are wolfing free bacon and sausage. I found one person by himself, approached him, and politely asked if I could take one of the three open seats at his table. He looked at me as if I asked for his liver, kidney, and corneas. He paused, and then told me his wife would be joining him. "Oh, thanks anyway," I said, adding that I was from New York and we just snatch any open anything. As I backed away, I spoke words that might have gotten me arrested. I was hungry; I didn’t notice the nuclear family conflagration. There were no signs reading, “Couples and Families,” and “Losers.” Otherwise, “I thought you were alone,” would have remained unsaid. Thankfully, he only gave me an evil eye rather than reveal the egg white omelet with spinach centered on my plate to the room. I contained myself and continued my procession through the large room. Each step echoed high school, when I always sat alone. I made one lap around the tables, refilled my coffee, and carried my plate upstairs.

Inside the hotel room bigger than my apartment I cry. I am not sure why-hormones maybe. I write the book on Alone: eating dinner out, going to movies, snorkeling in Belize, and road tripping to the mountains. It’s not that I hate people, I think this blog proves otherwise, but sometimes my friends can’t go or don’t always like my adrenaline fueled ideas of fun. So, why did his glare and the ensuing stares of others upset me. Feeling homesick for New York as I packed my backpack, I steeled myself to enjoy the day.

The power nap I caught on the forty-minute train ride to the city refreshed me and for the low price of a hot-dog, a homeless man walked me to Michigan Avenue home of Chicago’s famous Magnificent Mile. Did you know that Wood’s American Gothic, Wood’s Nighthawks, and Surat’s Sunday on the Grand Jatte all reside at the Art Institute of Chicago? Neither did I, but that’s not really important to the story.

Ashley, a friend of a friend, met me later in the afternoon and we walked up the mile, over to the shore of Lake Michigan, then back. She points out bastions of urban bliss, eateries and bars, and I retell my faux pas from this morning. She chuckles, explaining the difference between O’Hare and the city. “Out there you’re getting into the burbs,”she says with a lilt of leftover Arkansas, “it’s more of a Midwestern closed-off sensibility.”

That is the crux of it. People in the suburbs say that life in a big city is too fast, too harsh, and too lonely. I lived in the burbs for thirty years and I found the opposite: people are ruder, less accepting, and more insulated. Instead of confronting humanity by walking the streets or riding public transportation, one remains isolated inside a car or single family home. If you are single it’s easier to hole up in your house eating chocolate sauce out of the bottle talking to the cat than braving the looks you might garner sitting alone at a restaurant. In essence it’s okay to be alone, okay to be different and okay to make different choices in a city. At least that’s how I lived it. Yup must have been hormones.


The Art institute of Chicago