As part of Transport for London's initiative called "Art on the Tube" (an unsuccessful attempt to render our daily stampedes through the underground tunnels of London a little less dreary), I have been regularly passing a huge poster that exhorts, "If you don't like your life, you can change it!" In fact, here it is:
My consistent reaction has been to mutter under my breath and remind myself of all the reasons I couldn't just change my life: "When I commit to something, I commit. I chose this life in London, and dammit, I just have to make it work. I have to make it a success. And oh, yeah, it's so easy to just change your life, isn't it? I bet that goddamn artist didn't have student loans they had to pay off," I'd think, storming up the escalator in a worse mood than when I'd descended.
On Friday I gave my notice at work. And, epiphany time: yeah, it really is that easy to change your life. And although I know it sounds really Pollyanna and nauseating, and closely resembles an Oprah soundbite, once you choose to recognize unhappiness for what it is, consciously choose to seek the alternative, and refuse to compromise in the quest for a life that satisfies you, the results are profound and immediate. Here is my testimonial (I am imagining a Baptist congregation standing behind my desk at the moment, waving tambourines and jubilantly urging me on - "
Testify,
Sister Lemon!"):
1. My shopping mojo has returned in full force. No, look, you don't understand. I've felt so gross and disgusting from sitting behind a desk for a year, I haven't been able to bring myself to shop. At all. This has been a loss.
Call me shallow, call me superficial, I'll agree. But I freaking love to shop. And express who I am with clothes. And have felt no inspiration.
Well. Saturday morning I wandered out to get some things for Currie Cat and ended up coming back to the flat loaded up with two new boyfriend blazers, a very vintage-y dress that simply called to me and said, "I'll look amazing with your forest green patent leather shoes and that gorgeous patent leather green belt," a lovely, mod-ish red winter coat fully in keeping with my whole "I love the sixties and I just can't help it" aesthetic, new earrings, a few new tank tops, a funky blingy necklace, and some serious fabulous shoes.
Ohhhhh yes. I'm like a parched traveller finding their way out of a desert.
2. I blog, therefore I am. Seriously, haven't I blogged more in the last week or so than, err, a year? My friend Ben and I wandered all over Oxford in the sunshine today, talking about every subject under the sun (to be more precise, God, gay rights, ice cream, adoption, biological clocks, sex, architecture, our childhoods, parenting, Canadian identity, the extinction of the Beothuks, Jewish culture, California, Kabbalah, Pierre Trudeau, tourists and real estate, although not necessarily in that order), and I said at one point, when he asked how I found the energy to blog, given how I've been working, I said 'I have to write. If someone said, "You can't sing anymore, but you can write," I could take it, but the reverse would be unthinkable.'" And as I said it, I realized how true this statement was. So...ahhhh. It feels nice to be inspired by my own life again, to have the energy to wish to reflect upon and share my experience with all 4 of you who read this.
3. Inspiration cylinders are beginning to fire again. I'm drunk with ideas, about just about everything. In Oxford, I made a pilgrimage to the Oxford University Press bookstore, which Ben patiently endured (note: I made a similar journey to the Cambridge University Press store last week, with similar disastrous effects on my chequing account). As usual, I came out loaded up with critical texts on my two favorite stand-bys, Jane Austen and John Donne. I tried to explain to Ben how I could love a repressed spinster English novelist and a metaphysical lawyer/poet turned religious zealot who wrote about sex or God, or, frequently both in the same breath. I wistfully said, "If and when I do my PhD in literature, my dissertation will be on one or the other, although I love them both, and they're so totally different." And then, WHAM! My mind was racing with thoughts about how these writers could be compared, and what kind of research I'd need to do, and then the title of the dissertation hit, and then, several excited Facebook posts with a friend and fellow literature student later, and, I can't stop thinking about it.
4. Fuck the sad ballad and bring on the up tempo. My iPod is smoking: all I want to do is listen to music that makes me dance. Waiting for the boat on my way out these past few days, I've been skipping past the melancholy melodies that have reflected my mood, instead hitting repeat on the songs that put a spring in my step and bring a smile to my face, dancing on the dock, waiting, literally, for my ship to come in. Here are some highlights that should be on your playlist, too:
- MGMT: "Time to Pretend"
- Sam & Dave: "Hold On, I'm Comin'"
- Vampire Weekend: "Walcott"
- Matt Costa: "Mr. Pitiful"
- Alphabeat: "10,000 Nights"
- Badly Drawn Boy: "Something to Talk About"
- Billy Elliott Soundtrack: "Shine"
- The Coasters: "Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart"
- Chicago Soundtrack: "We Both Reached for the Gun/The Press Conference Rag"
- Yann Tiersen: "A Quai" (from Amelie)
- Dean Martin: "Ain't That a Kick in the Head"
OK, that might be enough joy for now. Must dole it out in doses you know. I'm a little breathless. Until tomorrow's gleeful update!