Still moving, ten years hence

This blog was started ten years ago out of exuberance and anticipation and boredom. I’d been laid off from my full time job, the kids were independent teens, and there was no reason to think this lull in life would go on forever. It was a wonderful time, at first.

I wanted to get out and enjoy my “free” time before another significant job came along to entangle me. In fact, I remember hoping that I wouldn’t find a new job right away – that I’d have the summer off, anyway, as a reward for the years of busting ass for multiple employers as well as raising a coven of young practically on my own.

Fortunately I was able to enjoy the summer of 2009 unhindered, giving my outdoors blog a good start. The first few entries were concerned with my job search, but it slowly transitioned from using outdoors activities to cope with unemployment to finding and writing about all of the trails I’d driven past in my working/soccer mom whirlwind of a life that was ending. It was like finding a secret door to another world. This blog gave me some purpose and direction, and it hasn’t lead me astray.

My enthusiasm for outdoors pursuits has not dimmed in 10 years. I just got a (‘nother) “new” (used) mountain bike, ordered my 437^th pair of running shoes (but who’s counting?) and have accomplished one of several significant hikes planned for this summer.

The challenging part is doing everything I want to do on a tight budget because there are few employers clamoring for writers. While I’ve had several decent freelance jobs (lasting a year or more) in the past decade and published three books, I’ve had to significantly reduce my expectations for ever returning to a well-paying full-time job in my field. The field of journalism shrunk by something like 40 percent – shed almost half of all jobs – in the last 15 years. I feel fortunate to still scratch out a living putting words together.

What I do now resembles using stepping stones to cross a brook, planning carefully for my next step and maintaining my balance, because there are no safety nets in self-employment. One big screw-up can cost dearly, whether it’s a trip to the emergency room for getting too daring on the trails (been there, done that) or letting my ambition for travel outstrip my financial resources. My outdoors adventures help with this life planning immeasurably, whether it’s toughing my way through to a goal or turning back and regrouping when the route is impassible.

A big part of the game is budgeting, both time and money. It’s funny in hindsight that I worked at an outdoors retailer and saw firsthand the “gearache” so many adventurers wander into. I don’t bother pretending anymore: I find used bikes and discount shoes. I eke long lives out of old style frame packs rather than buying the latest and greatest stuff. When friends offer rain jackets their kids have cast off, I take them without shame. When you think about it, nobody’s reading the label on your hiking boots or knock-off jacket when you’re on a trail. If the gear fits and functions as it should, who cares if it’s Patagonia or Columbia, used or new?

Also, I’ve stopped spending money on stuff like road races even though I enjoyed them and liked testing myself. After doing the math it was undeniable that $50 or $75 entry fees were just buying me very expensive t-shirts because I wasn’t going to be on the podium.

Lots of stuff happens in 10 years of life: you might travel to countries you never imagined visiting (like Peru), you might fall in love (checked the box there), you might become a grandparent (ditto), and you might hit some rough patches. As far as the latter goes, there’s no salve like nature to soothe broken hearts, tortured psyches, and provide inspiration and direction to aimless, jobless adults. Experiencing nature re-centers a person, reducing stress and from what I’ve experienced, releases endorphins that are better

I would have been happy to finish but I surprised myself and trimmed a few minutes from my half marathon time

how did we ever make it to the top of Carter Dome without special gear??

did I say most of the trails were well-drained?

than an 8 percent ABV microbrew after a long day on a trail.

When I work at my new job, which is speaking on the topics of my published books, including Hidden Gems of New England and Hikes Through History – I am an outspoken advocate of forest bathing, that practice that puts us back in touch with the natural world, even if it’s in micro-doses of 15 minutes a day.

When we find our footing in nature we can begin to take our next steps in life.

Write it on your heart

Are you fascinated by other people’s New Year resolutions? Naw, not me, either. But you can’t help thinking about it this time of year, can you? The media is in our faces with resolutions that are made and not kept and they’re all so predictable.

Mine is: don’t change a thing this year. I think it’s the first time ever that I haven’t had some major aspect of life to repair/renovate/retrieve and I couldn’t be happier. The thing is, I didn’t consciously make all of the changes that add up to what’s going right for me. That’s because lot of it had to do with letting go.

Four years ago we were under the Sydney harbor bridge for New Year’s Eve. I was a magazine editor enjoying a decent salary after a 20-year climb in my career but not happy with lots of things in my life. I thought I was near the top of my game professionally but was juggling like mad to deal with family stuff, never having enough time to really enjoy the fruits of my labor. That all changed a few months later as I was laid off and my magazine shut down due to the economy. For two years I struggled to get back into the game while biking, running and exploring away the unwanted free time. The tumult turned out to be a gift in disguise.

I accepted the first full-time job I was offered, and despite it being technical and tedious and having nothing to do with my career in journalism, it is the best thing that could have happened to me. It took a while to make the transition but the hardest part was shutting up and learning to enjoy the benefits. It’s work-from-home and completely flexible, allowing me to take a laptop on the road to pursue adventures anywhere, or to check in with the fish on the bay rather than being tethered to a desk just about anytime I feel like it. It has freed me from the professional aggravation of climbing a corporate ladder or sitting in an office on a sunny day that’s perfect for being outside. I’m still putting money away for retirement, but I’m not putting off enjoying life.

Emerson said, “Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.” And that’s what I’m doing.

Could I have made these changes consciously? Probably not. The Kool-Aid has been in my system since birth, telling me to pursue corporate success but not really justifying the servitude. Now I am learning to look at situations that we assume are “normal” and asking whether I want to take that route. It took major upheaval to alter the path of my life, but it was a good kick in the pants. I just wish it had happened sooner.

I wasn’t ready for my life’s path to veer off-track but now I am glad it did.

A Matter of Priorities

It was going to be warm, sunny … the last day of summer. There was only one option: get out and enjoy it.

There were so many possibilities, but one I hadn’t exploited enough this summer, kayaking. I’d borrowed a boat here and there, but didn’t use it the way it was intended. I mean, paddling around a reservoir I already know well just doesn’t compare to several hours gliding down a river.

Since I have fallen in love with Willowdale State Park, and even have warm fuzzies for its neighbor, Bradley Palmer State Park (getting out of there without freezing to death or being eaten by coyotes last winter is a plus), the Ipswich River was a natural choice for my day away.

It takes at least an hour to get there from my house. That’s a good thing. I am fortunate to have lots of recreational opportunities close to home, but that is a double-edged sword. It means I can be called back by the most mundane things. or that sometimes I don’t commit myself fully to enjoying my outing because I’m not able to get my head out of household/business matters. I find it takes actual physical distance and separation to achieve true enjoyment of the outdoors.

What made it easier is that I didn’t have to tie a kayak to the roof of my car and hope it stayed… I have flashbacks to seeing a kayak on the median of Route 128 sometimes and know that could happen to me… Foote Brothers to the rescue. They not only rent canoes and kayaks to use on the river, but they provide a shuttle service back from your destination, saving the kayaker from a strenuous upstream paddle.

Once committed to several hours on the river, it’s time to relax and enjoy the meandering water. It’s pretty clean the whole way, littered only by clumps of turtles clinging to branches in the water.

so many turtles ignored us as we paddled by on the Ipswich River

The only excitement my little group experienced was hitting beaver dams… and there were a bunch! Every half-hour or so, somebody had to get out and drag the kayaks across a dam. Luckily, most of them were flush with the water level. Only a couple acted like locks, with the water a few feet higher on the upstream side and a slightly exciting (hold onto the beer cooler!) drop on the other side.

crossing beaver dams in the river offered a little excitement

Mostly, the four-hour trip was peaceful and relaxing. We even stopped for a break on a nice, remote “island” that would be a very cool place to camp. Signs of human habitation were few and far between.

upturned trees offered interesting, almost artistic contrasts to the placid river scenery

near the end of our multi-hour paddle was this "horses only" private bridge in Topsfield

After wading in the cooling, late-summer water and feeling the sun on my skin again, I felt satisfied that summer had been given its due.

And the big brown water snake that cruised boldly by me toward the end of the day? A reminder whose world I’d entered. I like that.

What Cape Traffic?

There is probably just a handful of people in the world who dislike Cape Cod. Until recently, I was one of them. Well, let me qualify that: I avoided Cape Cod. It’s the traffic, that’s all. Try squeezing nearly 128,000 vehicles a day through the Bourne and Sagamore bridge lanes — that’s an actual number counted by the Cape Cod Commission (I may be unemployed but I remember how to find info like that). Now consider the number of vehicles on the Cape that don’t cross the bridges every day, and smoosh a good percentage of them onto the two lanes of Route 6 at least once a day … it’s the recipe for a perfect headache!

Route 6 is almost tolerable until it shrinks to single lanes!

So I haven’t ventured onto the Cape by car (my alternative was sailing in) for a few years. But then a customer at the store chatted me up about mountain biking. We exchanged favorite anecdotes but there was something about the way his eyes got misty when he said “Trail of Tears, on the Cape.” It stuck with me. I knew I’d have to make the trip to find out what is so special about the place.

Trail of Tears gets great reviews on the mountain biking sites I read, including NEMBA, Singletracks, and CapeCodBikeGuide.com. And I concur without reservation. Singletracks says, “It’s the best mountain biking on the Cape, period.”

It’s easy to find, but for me, of course, it was easy to lose my car once I got there. There are three possible parking areas… and without a trail map (I think they’re available at the town hall if you have time), you’ll be like me, giving yourself an hour at the end of the ride to find your ride home. I parked under some high tension wires and was creeped out by other people sitting in their (idling) cars in the p-lot. I mean, this is rather remote, no houses in sight… I’m thinking it’s either a drug drop or a hookup spot… I got my stuff together and even put my shoes on before I got out of the car to minimize possible interactions with the lurkers. Eeeew.

First impressions weren’t so hot. Right under the wires, the tracks were filled with soft sand, deep enough to stop me dead. It was blazing hot and I wasn’t enjoying it. I didn’t want to go full speed down the hills and hit soft sand, nor could I get much momentum going up the hills due to the sand. Hmmm.. where were the trails the other reviewers raved about?

under the wires it was way too sandy for me

All was revealed when I found a trail that headed for the trees. Suddenly, I was plunged into a warren of amazing hard-packed singletrack. It was fast and not too technical, a real dream. Soon I found myself giggling at the hills, turns and dips, just having a blast zipping through the woods. Best part: there are FIFTEEN MILES of fun to be had here. 15 miles!

once in the woods, a wonderful world of trails opened up

Amazingly, there was NO traffic. For the first hour, I was all by myself, just flying around, criss-crossing trails and enjoying the terrain without a thought. Then I stopped to look at the only posted trail map I saw in there (like it really helps a chronically lost rider like myself). I heard a noise, and saw a rider flying down a hill toward me. Scrambling to get out of his way, I apologized for slowing him down. But he just smiled and said, “Sweet! Somebody else is out here!” And he was gone again.

Somewhere along the way … was I looking for my car? … I ended up at a meadow that was a beautiful break from the woodsy trails. On the far side, I found some track that is unlike anything I’ve seen before. The best way to describe it is to imagine someone sculpting a quick, roller-coaster section of trail out of smooth mud and letting it harden. I just can’t imagine how this feature came about naturally, so I have to assume there’s some master craftsmen at work. It was a short, narrow singletrack, bounded on both sides by thick ferns, and a wonderful source of laugh-out-loud FUN frickin’ riding. I felt like a 12-year-old boy pulling wheelies on the top of every whoop-de-do. This photo doesn’t do it justice, but it’s proof that I’m not making this up!

frolicking in the ferns, I couldn't keep from laughing out loud

No need to prolong this glowing review. I should really be on my way back to the Cape (during the week!) to ride this area again. It was that good. And I’d recommend it to parents with kids who are learning to mountain bike, because it’s quiet and easy enough to stick to non-technical riding but get the real experience.

there are still parts of the Cape I like, after all

Eureka! Two Birds, One Stone

On my ride home from work last week, I might have been contemplating a low-gluten diet for better absorption of nutrients, or I may have been feeling a little smug about my recent efforts to kick off the Meatless Monday movement in my town. Either way, I was completely blindsided by the view around one corner.

Ahead of me were two kids on bikes.

My first reaction was to smile and wave at fellow bikers, subtly encouraging their enjoyment with adult approval.

My second reaction was to recoil in horror.

The girl out front was morbidly obese at about 9 years old. She was holding onto one side of her handlebars with both hands, but not to do crazy kid tricks like standing on the seat or riding backward or even going no-hands. No, she was struggling to simultaneously pedal and scrape the remnants of orange-colored processed cheese food out of a little plastic tray. Riding behind was her brother, not quite as large but clearly headed that way, who waved back at me with his free hand because it was easier for him to hold his bag of chips against his handlebars while riding.

What a wake-up call.

I’ve had way too much time on my hands in the past year, and have spent a shameful portion of it feeding my interest in fitness and nutrition. Why is it shameful? Because I’m not a Tour de France-level athlete. Reducing gluten for optimal nutrition absorption is not going to make a big impact on my life. Nor will most of the info I’ve consumed about the pros and cons of supplements for joints, the acclaim, then doubts cast on antioxidants, marathon training regimens, the struggle over the definition of organics, and whether my seafood choices are morally defensible and environmentally sustainable.

It’s all just mental bubblegum when faced with the obvious: many people aren’t getting basic info on nutrition and health/longevity. Otherwise, how could someone who loves and cares for these kids set them up with a lifetime supply of crap food that would make them obese?

The scene triggered a new round of self-examination and soul searching. Why continue to flog away at efforts to re-enter a dying industry (print journalism) when its impact on society is waning every day (e.g., the Globe editorials that didn’t make a dent in Scott Brown’s total votes), why not throw my weight into an effort that could make a real impact on the future?

After much thought, I’ve discovered my true calling:

my true calling, hairnet and all

Yes, I now aspire to be a lunch lady. What better person to impact future generations, and get summers off to boot??

In case you’re the only one who hasn’t heard, I’m a mean mom who makes kids eat their veggies. I have a gift for irritating them into compliance by endlessly lecturing about the benefits of lentils (they’re legumes, you know), the devastation of rainforests so we can eat more flavorless McDonald’s hamburgers, and the importance of a clean colon. Unfortunately, my own children are growing and finding ways to be absent from vegetable soup night at home, so I have an excess of time and energy to devote to helping others.

At a minimum, I’d happily dispense scoops of creamed spinach with such a gut-churning <<splat>> that at least some of the kids would be inspired to skip lunch completely, avoiding all of the government surplus cheese their school cafeterias churn out, and saving those trans-fat laden calories for later.

If that doesn’t work, I’d make a great gym teacher …

comfy outfits, summers off... what's not to love?

Rocking the Road

Running has a wonderful way of clearing the mind, washing away the debris and cobwebs of the day. For me, it takes a couple miles to shake the stickier thoughts loose. Music — only that without lyrics — seems to help get me in the groove. I used to have an MP3 player that held Jimmy Buffet’s greatest hits, but realized it made me slower, because all I could think about was laying in a hammock drinking a margarita. I’ve found the right music now, but the delivery method is lacking. So while I struggle down the road, looking for my zone and fighting with my phone, these are the thoughts I’ve been trying to dislodge:

1. Pandora and Slacker and Blackberry all suck. I’m wishing I never got hooked on listening to music when I run, because now I spend more time messing with my Blackberry than actually running. Pandora, which is truer to the station I choose (more on that below) cuts out after every other song. So I tried Slacker, which sends me dozens of those stoopid permission pop-ups, also interrupting the music. And, Slacker cuts out frequently. It does a lousy job of sticking with the “station” or genre of music that I want to hear. Don’t get me started on Blackberry, which is flooded with unnecessary apps that I didn’t want, overloads, then requires me to pull the battery to restart it (which, amazingly, I’m now able to do without stopping because I’m so practiced at it). Messing with a runner’s music is bad juju.

2. Rodrigo y Gabriela is the only thing worth listening to when running. I could do a 100-mile ultra race if I could get a continuous loop of their version of Stairway to Heaven. They are my zone. 

3. Why can’t I stop thinking about that mediocre mountain bike ride I had along the tracks in Dover a few weeks ago? I may be haunted by the hillbilly shack I found (complete with multiple junked cars in the woods), or this backbone that was laying in a field. What was that thing, anyway? Not enough left for me to figure it out, and I was too creeped out to spend time examining it. As a friend said, “Pedal faster, I hear banjos!”

well...? mastodon? woolly mammoth?

4. The opinion of renown scientist Stephen Hawking that ET would not be friendly if he actually did visit us deserves some thought. Is this just the mad rantings of a man stuck inside his own mind (Hawking has ALS and is confined to a wheelchair)? It’s been in the news this week that Hawking believes other forms of life exist in the universe but we should not be friendly to them or we may become the equivalent of intergalactic beef jerky. Makes me wonder if he was misquoted, or was influenced by watching Mars Attacks, one of my absolute favorite movies. Now I can tease my intolerant teenagers with MORE country music (which they are forced to endure if they change my radio station in the car without asking).

country music could become part of national defense (see the movie)

That’s it, all my brain could hold when I’m running. Impressive, huh?

Gear Creep

When I got a part-time job to soften the misery of unemployment, I thought a sporting goods store was a good option. After all, I hike and bike and would rather swallow hot coals than work at Old Navy.

As a frugal, practicality-driven New Englander, I never imagined the transformation I’d go through in the 20-odd hours a week I spend there.

Forever, I had been just fine with whatever clothing and equipment I had on hand. Getting out was more important than having the latest and the greatest. I never read gear guides, wouldn’t have wasted my time. I had no idea that the Atomic 180 skis my brother in law gave me in college would make the other kids on the ski bus drool. Slalom skis? Who cared? I just wanted to be on the slopes, and sometimes wore bluejeans if something more appropriate weren’t available. And I walked from Lechmere Station to the Saucony outlet store in Cambridge to save $10 on my running shoes, which I could only afford by foregoing groceries. More recently I rode a hybrid bike on trails until I found a free Huffy at the side of the road and, preferring its smaller frame and lower bars, rode that heavy, rigid beast instead. I guess it’s always been about the experience, not the performance.

how did we ever make it to the top of Carter Dome without special gear??

Enter EMS. At first I gasped at the prices: $200 Gore-Tex jackets and $20 pairs of socks. Wow, I spent my working hours among $900 kayaks and $300 ultralight packs, stuff I never imagined owning. But my immunity to gearheadedness wore away quicker than a Baptist learns to dance at a Prince concert. We’re outfitters, even if most of our customers are more interested in labels than performance (*cough*NorthFace*cough*). I studied the attributes of the technical fabrics and learned why steel shanks are preferred by serious hikers. I sell snowshoes even though I own some and don’t like them. I drank the Kool-Aid and was soon walking around the store calculating my employee discount on things like spray skirts and climbing harnesses. I’ve mentally outfitted myself for expeditions across vast continents, like the ones we show on big flat-screen TVs in the store. Suddenly, by working there, I considered myself one of them — someone who should have this gear. In fact, it could save my life under certain conditions. Ergo, I NEED it.

I rationalized that I’d been cheated by my heritage. Had I been a climber (social, not mountain) I’d have worn the performance gear long ago. And it’s only reasonable to extrapolate that lightweight, moisture-wicking material would have allowed me to finish races faster than my heavyweight cotton sweats ever did. I mean, without that sweat-soaked hoodie like an anchor around my neck, I could’a been a contender!

So I enter the afternoon of my life, long past my racing prime, finally riding a decent bike with suspension and able to afford running shoes that aren’t marked “IRREG.” I’ve got excellent back country skis and boots (but that didn’t mean we had snow for half the winter). I own some Techwick. And that’s not all. The socks have absolutely spoiled me for life. Never again will I be able to walk into a KMart and pick up a bag full of cotton athletic socks. Nosireee. I’ve got padded hiking socks, SmartWool, and more with elastic support woven in, price be damned. Even though I don’t yet own the Asolo FSN boots to go with them, my feet have never been treated so well.

expensive boots come with butlers to clean them, right?

For now I can’t afford to spend my meager paycheck on the gear of my fantasies (nevermind actually get to the places where I might use it), but I’m keeping a mental tally of the indulgences I’ll allow when the real money starts flowing again. And I’m not paying any attention to the amusing story told by a customer who did a multi-day backcountry traverse with a homemade TyVek tent and a beer can stove fueled by Everclear (also useful as an antiseptic and painkiller, he said).

Still, sometimes this gear creep worries me. I was in Christmas Tree Shop today and saw a bag of smooth wooden skewers for sale. They were labeled “marshmallow roasting sticks.” A chill ran down my spine. When I buy those specialized sticks (rather than eat a real roasted marshmallow with the tree bark surprise in the center) we’ll know the gear goblins have gotten inside my head.

Skating Away

My apologies to friends who spent yesterday in office buildings (I’m trying to be sincere), but when I went out and felt the warm sun I was compelled to go rollerblading.

My options used to be wide open, allowing me to skim through town for miles, enjoying the vistas. Then the DPW decided to glop disgusting oil and gravel sealer on everything, ruining many of the road surfaces. (I’m convinced the stuff is horrible for the environment, but that’s a future post.) There’s one recently paved straight flat road not far away that I can still use, though peak traffic sometimes spoils my fun. Imagine my excitement when I discovered this sign at the end of the street:

sorry, but I had to go rollerblading

How did I get so lucky? This meant I didn’t have to worry about SUV mamas talking on their cell phones while they zipped from their McMansions to town to pick up junior after half-day Kindergarten. I could sing ALOUD with Pandora and nobody would complain or laugh. And I could even practice those moves I’ll use someday when I’m bikini skating on the Venice Beach boardwalk (oops, did I really write that??).

One of the benefits of living in a small town (aside from listening to your teenagers complain about living in a small town) is the pace of life: the DPW hadn’t reopened the road despite it being dry for a few days. It would have been nice if the river had left it clean and free of debris, but I’m not complaining. Any day spent outside is better than one spent feeling your life slip away in cubicle hell.

can you see the snake in this picture??

Of course gliding back and forth on this little strip of heaven couldn’t be completely free of drama and excitement. About 40 minutes into my fun, I noticed a little teensy snake had wiggled up onto the pavement to enjoy the sun. My nerves were steeled when I reassured myself that I was clad in hard plastic halfway to my knees, but that didn’t prevent me from getting the willies every time I saw a stick anywhere on or near the road. And I stopped to put my shoes up on the guardrail in case the snake (or a friend) thought they made a good house.

When I packed up to go, the DPW was just moving the barriers and reopening the road. Made me wonder if I shouldn’t petition the town to close a road or two for non-motorized uses once a week, like Cambridge does with Memorial Drive. It might allow us all remember the joys self-propelled diversions again.

Keep It Moving

My interminable unemployment may be coming to an end. That will bring financial relief (I hope) but it also brings concern. I worry that going back to being a chair-bound writer will of necessity turn my newly toned muscles to jello in a matter of weeks.

No longer will I have the luxury of scheduling a day’s events around a two-hour run, or a longer ski romp through idyllic conservation land. Instead, I’ll be back to squeezing in time for fitness because I have to. That could wreak havoc with my enjoyment of the day’s outings — I never enjoy the things I have to do, so running or biking becomes more like washing dishes or vacuuming.

There’s the option of commuting to work by bike, which always sounds better than the reality of it. I’ve tried bike commuting from time to time (never having the flexibility to commit to it as my sole means of transportation), and I always face it with a mix of enjoyment and dread. I don’t mind cold mornings or packing or making extra time to shower at work. It’s the unknowable population of drivers that gives me pause. Are they drifting toward me because they’re texting? What if the next car is driven by a student on her permit like one of my kids? What consistency of paste would I become if that cement truck moved six inches closer and pulled me under its wheels? And why the hell do some people have to honk their horns behind me — because they want to see my middle finger??

skinny wheel commuting is an exercise in stress control

Yesterday on my 20 mile round trip commute to EMS, I was nearly smeared on the pavement twice, the first time right outside my house by a guy in a pickup truck who didn’t want to give me room to avoid the storm debris in the gutter (I will publish license plate numbers in the future!). The second time was by a sweet looking mom who had twins tucked into car seats in the back of her Prius, but who didn’t bother to look behind her when she backed out of her driveway. (Lady, if you’re reading this, I accept what appeared to be your sincere apology while I screamed at you.) And to think I ride because it usually makes me feel less stressed!

Still, incorporating a workout into a purposeful daily routine appeals to me more than getting home at 5:30 and trying to carve 45 minutes out of the evening schedule for a jog or to dive back into rush-hour traffic for a bike ride (yes, mountain biking is preferable to battling with traffic, but it’s still mud season– see previous post). Add to that the information from this NY Times article that says working out for an hour isn’t enough to negate the effects of sitting on your ass the rest of the day.

In the best of all worlds, I’d be making twice as much money at my menial retail job (which I love, really I do!) to which I can commute to by bike and where I remain active throughout my shift. Another five years of that and I might achieve the optimal physical condition I’ve been working toward for 20 years. But this being the real world, I’m hoping this desk job I’ve been offered comes through, because gainful employment will probably in itself extend my life more than the effects of my Zen state of unemployment (and risk it less than bike commuting).

We’ll see about that desk/treadmill combo that would allow me to log more miles while typing, assuming I can muster that kind of coordination.

I can do that!

It’s officially my fifth month of unemployment, and my mind is going in some strange directions: urine collector, substitute teacher, egg donor, Tupperware consultant.

Once, when I was young and trying the world on for size, I held jobs in manufacturing, retail, bar tending, and at a tree nursery (which encompassed all of the glamour of picking up rocks, pulling weeds, planting tiny trees in endless rows, and enduring blistering sunburns or hail storms, depending on the whim of Mother Nature). I was proud of my widely varying skills and the interesting people I met along the way.

Unfortunately, that’s left me with the attitude that I could do just about any job you might throw at me. It’s unfortunate because, as the months slide closer to the end of my unemployment benefits — and “survival mode”– I actually begin to entertain thoughts that I could do some of these jobs long term to support my family.

That’s just another fantasy of a person with a good imagination: a writer. I settled on writing about 20 years ago probably because, like an ecstasy freak, I found everyone I met to be so fascinating that they each deserved a published profile. Or because all of those menial jobs I held before were only “interesting” for about the first 2 days. Once I knew how to punch in and find the bathroom, the shine began to dull. Writing meant a different topic every day, which suited my attention deficit issues perfectly!

Now my job is finding a new job. Well-trained by years of ass-in-chair productivity, I’ve spent the last several months believing that the harder I look,  the more time I spend looking, the more likely I am to find a job. Think about that for a minute. If that were the case, I would be employed now. I’ve been looking under every rock and sticky web ad for months, only to learn that the inverse is true. The job market is so bad that I’m not going to find a job until the job is ready to be found.

Yet I spend a ridiculous number of hours a day trolling the same web sites for jobs, reminding friends and acquaintances that I’m looking, and generally wallowing in the depths of low self-esteem. It gets so bad at times that I think, “hmm, if somebody wants to pay me $12 an hour to collect urine samples for drug testing, I could do that.” The rationale is that I’ve changed so many dirty diapers in my lifetime that handling a few more ounces of pee a week wouldn’t faze me. And egg donor? Where do I sign up to finally get reimbursed for my natural talent in that field??

If not for Craigslist, I wouldn’t have this diversion. Because it is a diversion. I know I wouldn’t last as an airport chauffeur (but I can spell it!), typist, waitress, or beauty shop receptionist. But it counts toward my hours looking for a job, right?