Superheroes For Hire

Like so many other overly optimistic couples this Christmas, Kelsey and I acquired Fitbits with the intention of getting in shape for our November wedding. So far, I've made use of mine by lying about my calorie intake and trying to look cool by pushing up my sleeve in public to check my step count.

These guilt-tripping pieces of tech are actually pretty useful, if you use them right. They track your sleep, calories burned, miles walked, active minutes, weight, all the stuff someone trying to be more aware of their health needs. And it's not just your own health you can monitor. If you have friends using the app that goes with the Fitbit watch, you can look at their accomplishments (you get badges for meeting challenge goals, like hitting 10,000 steps or losing a certain amount of weight). This feature opened my eyes to the reality of Kelsey's daily life.

Let me start with my own typical stats. Working in a wealth management office, I get maybe 6,000 steps in on a good day. I only work at the office for half the day, and the rest of the day is for my own errands and hobbies. I sleep about 5 hours a night, which is not by my preference, as I could be an Olympic sleeper if such a sport existed. I stay up so I can see Kelsey for a couple hours every day.

Kelsey gets up about the same time as I do, around 7:30 or so in the morning. While I drive 10 minutes to get to my office, she drives 30 to get downtown, where she parks in a lot she pays for every month and walks another 15 minutes (regardless of weather) to reach her unpaid 40-hour-a-week internship with the Indiana Repertory Theater. After working a full day there, walking all over the theater, up and down narrow stairs, across catwalks, she walks 15 minutes back to her car and drives 30 to 45 minutes to her next job, the only type of job that someone who already works full time with sometimes unusual hours can reasonably hold.  

Job #2, Marco's Pizza, where she is wildly overqualified and wildly underpaid. Where her coworkers don't care and she shouldn't have the energy to care either. Where customers regularly stiff her on tips when she delivers (at a rate under minimum wage, at her own expense for gas and maintenance on her overworked car). At least she's rising through the ranks, but that means a less flexible schedule, so less free time for her.

When she comes home at about 1 in the morning from a 16 hour day, her Fitbit lets me know that she takes an average of 16,000 steps every day. She's had the Fitbit for less than 2 weeks, and in that time, she's walked 26 miles with it on. I walk 4,000 steps a day on average. She walks 4 times farther than I do. She works 4 times longer than I do.

She eats an absurdly late dinner, we try to relax with a show or a game, and then it's time to squeeze in those 5 hours of sleep. If you can call it sleep. The Fitbit tracks the time she spends awake and restless. While I'm sleeping like I've been given horse tranquilizer, she's next to me tossing and turning, losing around 45 minutes of sleep a night.

It's no wonder she sleeps like she's being tased every half hour. Her car is in constant need of repairs that she doesn't have the time or money for, loans are looming above her like a cartoon anvil hanging by a fraying thread, she still has another giant internship to complete to get her degree (that you can bet will be unpaid, because if there are thousands of near-graduates with a 6 month internship requirement flooding the market and fighting for positions, there's no reason to bother paying them)... the list could wrap around the world.

If we weren't living together with our third roommate (the marvelous Cade, who is also underemployed and underpaid and watching her student loans fall toward her neck guillotine-style), we wouldn't be able to live on our own, making car and rent payments, keeping the lights on and the fridge stocked. And we're lucky to have that. We are luckier than millions in our generation. The jobs that we were told would be there for us after college don't exist in numbers substantial enough to support us, and the jobs that are there misuse our skills and leave us with too little money to pay back the massive loans required for an education that seems increasingly pointless. How can we be expected to invest or innovate when we have no funding and no time?

The truth is, you have to be a superhero to find a place in this market. Kelsey and Cade are two of the hardest working, brightest, and most caring humans I know. They care about their work when their work doesn't care back. They work themselves to the bone just to scrape by (it's only recently that Cade's workday has been shortened from Kelsey's, and during that time, she had to survive on food stamps and personal loans). Their spectacular minds aren't given the time or energy to reach their full potential.

And you know what? They tip. I've seen Cade tip over 100% on a meal she can't afford. They help friends and strangers in need, providing rides to work, picking up extra hours. They actively strive to improve the quality and efficiency of their work. Kelsey is overflowing with ways to improve her store, and is frustrated by the lack of passion (or competence) of her coworkers, and the broken system of store management that I fully believe she can fix.

These people are superheroes battling a vicious job market, an increasingly split socioeconomic environment, and an education system that's wringing them for all they've got. When you shout at a kid who made your coffee drink different from how you wanted, it's one of them you're shouting at, and they've been dealing with jerks like you all day, and on only a few hours of sleep. The lazy pizza delivery guy stereotype? Your delivery person may in fact be working their second job, missing the turning of the new year with their friends and family so you can order your pizza at the last minute.

Even living with these heroes, it's taken me a while to understand just how difficult their fight is. I'm privileged beyond belief. I didn't pay for my education. It was given to me. I've never worked a true service job, and the closest thing I've had to it was a relatively cushy office job with a 401K and paid vacations. 

Please appreciate the superheroes in your life. They're fighting for an American dream that no longer exists, but somehow, they're still the kindest, most driven people I know. If you have the opportunity to hire one of these people, don't throw out their resumes because they don't have the experience. Give them that experience, and they will give you something incredible back.

In Case You Wondered...

... I continue to exist. Boy, do I have stories. Stories of horror, stories of romance, stories of a new-found addiction to a knock-off Mario Kart. Stories of Christmas, and of Thanksgiving (including the first time in my life that I missed the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade and woke up with a bunch of slipper-wearing strangers). Stories of Cinderella carriages and broken rings and microfilm.

Stories I'll tell you another time.

NaNoWHY?!?!Mo

Let it be known that I continue to exist. This month has been a wild ride. As we arrive on the last day of National Novel Writing Month, I still have just under 5,000 words to write for Curtains. Aside from writing, I've had a host of other adventures, from the melancholy to the marvelous. I'll report back regarding those adventures at a later date. For now, I have 5,000 words to make up.

(Also, apologies are due for my ill-conceived notion that I'd put up a new writing prompt every day. It was a personal goal, given only my best friend and maybe (but probably not) my mommy read this drivel, but I'm bummed I didn't follow through.) 

NANOWRI-WHOA!

Yup, it's that time again. Time to write a novel. Just spew it out there. A whole book.

So that's where I'm gonna be for a month. But I'm also gonna pop up a writing prompt for every day! So, I'm about to add another 4 prompts to make up for lost time.

Don't know what Nanowrimo is? Check out their website! In fact, don't just check out the site. Add me as a writing buddy! Buddy up with me by clicking here. My handle is "cheerchime," and I'd love to be your writing bud. 

So! Let's write us a novel, yeah? GO!

Bill's Barn Blues

My grandfather, Bill (I call him Pappa), died last week, and his funeral was Saturday. I wanted to come up with something meaningful to post regarding this, but sometimes it's hard to come up with meaning for such an event, even after thinking through every detail. These things happen, and leave you a little numb, a little wounded, but also a little relieved.

Witnessing the death of my grandmother has made this sort of thing easier, but not easy. I didn't watch Pappa die like that. I was lucky enough to see his deterioration in blips. A visit here, a photo texted from my mom there. So it was odd to try to remember the last words we exchanged. I did say goodbye, and that I loved him. I remember him saying, "I wanted to lose weight, but not like this." 

I remember things further back as well. I remember him cackling in his low voice and turning the cold arch of water from the garden house on me. I remember feeding the dogs treats with him out in his barn, surrounded by tools and gloves and spare parts for machines unknown. I remember when he handed me a scythe and turned me loose in the woods to carve a walking path. I loved swinging that scythe. My winding trails are still there, but the woods feel like less of a jungle and more of a cemetery now. 

I remember sitting in the dark living room with my younger brother on Christmas night almost four years ago. We listened to Pappa as he explained splitting phone lines and laying cable. He was sitting next to my grandmother's body. The paramedics weren't there yet, and the rest of the family was in the barn, smoking, shielding themselves from the pain of the loss in shifts. Pappa was different after that. We were all different after that. 

The funeral itself was a little iffy. The pastor didn't really know him, which made the sermon stale and disconnected. Which was fine by me. I don't like to cry in public (although I'm very good at it). What we did after the funeral was better. We grilled meat and drank whiskey and laughed around a bonfire.

That was the true ceremony. No cold, boxed words spoken by a stranger under the rose-hued lights of a funeral parlor. What we had was authentic. A last raucous get-together out by the barn. Hugs. Jokes. Passing around a bottle. Talking truth. My grandparents would have approved. In the darkness, you could almost see them sitting in the shadows across the fire, bundled in sweatshirts and work boots against the autumn chill, smiling.

It's hard to say goodbye to them and their home. The place and the people are tied together eternally in my mind. So I won't say goodbye. I just have to close that door and be satisfied by the summers spent in their company. The past is not lost in the death of loved ones or the sale of their possessions. It's just as real as before, and it's a history to be shared over countless fires to come.