I Hate Talking About Work. Let's Talk About Life

I think somewhere along the way I entirely missed adulthood.

Hey all!

Before I get into the story, I want to apologize (again) for the time that has past since my last post. A few weeks ago I was hit with a brutal case of vertigo. I walked about my apartment like a drunken toddler amidst a sea storm for a good 10 days. Thankfully it was just moisture trapped in my ear throwing off my equilibrium, but the drops the doctors prescribed ended up becoming stuck (I told them drops always did that with me…they told me to use them anyway) and I’ve had another 10 days of a wobbly world. During that time I just couldn’t spend more than a few minutes looking at a screen.

Thankfully I’m on the mend (again). Ha, no more drops. So, as long as the vertigo doesn’t return with a vengeance, I’ll be posting more frequently.

Thanks a million for sticking around with me. There’s a lot in the world of nomad, real estate, and investment visas going on at the moment, so I’ll be covering that in the coming days.

Take care and have a fantastic day!

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I hate talking about work. 

It’s not something I bring up, and I rarely disclose the intricacies of what I do. At least without being pressed into a corner of uncomfortable social gatherings.

You’re more likely to read about my past relationships, sexual experiences, or contemplations about life while walking a stony beach around a forgotten lake. Those things interest me. They tell a personal story. I’d much rather have someone judge me about who I am than what I do. 

A few months ago, I returned to Michigan for the wedding of a good friend. Traveling from Albania to Detroit for a long weekend isn’t something I’d do for most people. He’s maybe one of three people (including family) I’d travel for. He was the kind of guy who always offered to help you move, picked you up from the airport, was waiting outside the jail to take you home. Of my core group of friends, I considered him above the rest of us. Airport and county slammer pickups are no small feats.

I attended, despite knowing I’d be forced to discuss what I did for a living with dozens of former classmates. Some were people I once called friends, though hadn’t spoken to in years. Others were people I never considered friends, but instead were friends of friends. 

There’s a forced competitiveness when it comes to such gatherings. People place their own lives on an invisible scale, measuring them against yours. So many of the people I talked with had children, homes, and elaborate job titles. Three worked for military contractors, while another was a Big Pharma lobbyist. When the drug peddler learned of my writing and book work, he made sure I knew not many authors make it. Most end up failures. 

I shrugged away asking how much blood was on his hands from bloated pharmaceutical costs. Chasing a dream isn’t for the faint of heart. Especially with cardiovascular treatment prices. 

Doing what I could to expedite shaking hands and discussing work, I happily found a seat with relatives of the groom. I’d known many of them since the first grade, and while job descriptions did pop up, they were more interested in my travels, my daily life in Albania, and how my mother was doing. 

Funny how priorities shift with age. Classmates wanted to know about work. Their parents wanted to know about life. I felt more at home with them than nearly anyone else at the gathering. Maybe somewhere along the line I skipped adulthood for silver sneakers and an AARP card.

In truth, I’ve never felt like an adult. The most “adult” part of my life was gearing up for my own wedding, discovering the bride was fucking someone else, and the fallout the followed. I even added some adult language in there to emphasize the impact. The most adult part of my life is the one I’ve wanted to leave behind. Perhaps adulthood just isn’t for me. 

Owning homes and having children turn (most) people into variations of their parents, whether they want it or not. I’m sure there’s something about seeing a child born and holding them for the first time that immediately makes someone an adult, regardless of how ready they are. Of course, I’m only guessing. 

There’s a kind of existential purgatory in between childhood and adulthood. You’re no longer a kid, you can legally buy alcohol, rent a car, file for bankrupcy, but do those things make you an adult? I didn’t have a bar mitzvah so I had no official “becoming a man” marker in my life, though I’d call myself an adult based on how long it takes to scroll down and find my birth year when filling out online forms. Mysteriously injuring my neck while sleeping or hurting my back when sitting on the toilet wrong don’t help my case for childhood, though they do support my thesis of being a young geriatric. 

In truth, I don’t know if any of that impacts my distaste for talking about work. I think it has more to do with my life and what I know. I don’t know owning houses or having kids. The last time I punched into work I used a physical card while working at The Pita Pit. I don’t have imployment tiffs or coworkers who stink up the break room with reheated fish and kimchi. I could bitch about the occasional editor, but even then there’s not much to say. Most publications I write for don’t even send the work back for edits now. Perhaps it’s because the copy editors are too busy being adults with homes and kids. 

That or they dislike talking about work as much as I do. 

I’ve never liked talking about work, probably because I don’t put a person’s self worth in it. I could care less what someone does (well, almost…the Big Pharma lobbyist position does grind me). Gas station trainee cashier, seasoned neurosurgen, professional baseball player. It’s all the same to me. I don’t want to talk about work. I want to talk about life. 

That might alienate me from classmates. But I fit right in at the retirement home.