On the Brin of Change

"You can masturbate all you want but it won't prepare you for sex!"

Never let it be said that lawyers don't have a way with words. This particular pearl of wisdom was being proffered by Ron Parker, tax evasion specialist, self-proclaimed gym rat and lover of rock ballads. He was a good enough guy, easy to get along with and over time had more than made up for the rock ballad thing with free personal training advice.

"You know, Ronnie," I replied, reaching into the locker for my gym bag, "that analogy wouldn't bother me so much if you weren't standing there naked. And by way, has anyone ever taught you the concept of personal space? In this case, I'm going to need to ask for about six feet."

We had finished our unarranged but habitual Saturday morning workout routine and were continuing the conversation that had started sometime around tricep extensions. It was a topic I had brought up on apparently one too many occasions and Ron had finally decided it was time for me to put up or shut up.

"Look," he continued, ignoring my attempt at derailing his lecture, "all I'm saying is that you can think about changing careers all you want but until you dive in and actually do it, you can't know how it's going to go."

"And all I'm saying is put some clothes on! Seriously. I don't talk business in the nude with anyone except my ex wife and only then if I need something."

Ron laughed and turned toward his locker. "Fine. Whatever. You know I'm right!"

Yeah, I knew he was right. Six pack abs and insightful. Fucking bastard. I briefly entertained the idea of running him down in the parking lot but then realized I'd have to start paying for personal training if I did. And if I ever was going to switch careers, I was going to need every freebie I could get.

I read once that Americans change their careers more often than any other people in the world. Some would say this exemplifies the personal freedom we enjoy. Myself, I think it shows just how much your average job sucks. We all go around jumping from one to the other in the desperate and futile belief that somewhere there must be a job that doesn't make you want to go home and bathe in paint thinner while drinking cheap whiskey and playing with matches.

At any given moment 93.7% of Americans hate there job. That number would be higher but the other 6.3% are too busy looking for another job to take a survey. The number one reason people hate their job, of course, is their boss, those insipid little bastards that couldn't find their ass with both hands yet somehow manage to screw yours. By coincidence the number one reason bosses hate their job is the employees and, oddly enough, for the same reasons. As fucked up as the situation is, it's a wonder that every workday doesn't end in gun fire.

Still, sensible people get up every morning, grit their teeth, go into the office, keep their head down and thank their lucky stars they have shitty health insurance. A few, however, eventually descend into a type of madness known clinically as Delusional Self Employment Mania, or D.S.E.M., a condition characterized by waking dreams of freedom and independence, and a euphoric sense of personal manifest destiny. Less formally these individuals are referred to as 'crazy'.

I know firsthand the difficulties of living with D.S.E.M. having personally contracted the condition two years ago while sitting in a strategy meeting during which 47 minutes were spent debating whether we as a company should standardize on using the spelling 'e-mail' or 'email'. At the end of it a vote was taken and the spelling 'e-mail' chosen on the grounds that it would present us as being sophisticated and learned and thereby double our annual revenue. It was at that moment I experienced my first waking dream of self employment freedom and I have struggled with the affliction ever since.

It has been particularly difficult for me in the fact that I suffer from one of the most acute forms of D.E.M.S. While some people with the condition may see themselves as a freelance web designer, opening a restaurant, becoming a porn star or engaging in some other kind of respected and marketable career, in my delusion I see myself as a writer working on the great American novel or, worse, maintaining a blog on the Internet and making money off of banner ads and the sale of self-promoting merchandise.

For a time I was able to treat it with a monthly dosage of bill paying. A form of shock therapy, the jolt of making mortgage and car payments, and seeing the devastating effect the violent act had on my bank account was enough to keep me grounded in reality for days or even weeks at a time.

Eventually, though, the effects of even the most aggressive bill paying therapy would begin to wane and the voices in my head would return more insistent than before. "Who needs insurance!" "Food is overrated!" "If you bathe only twice a week, you could save enough money to make it work!"

Now, over the last few months, things had gotten to the point where nothing was abating the dreams and the lines between reality and fantasy had begun to blur. I found myself saying things like, "Jon, either you approve my departmental budget or I am not inviting you to the book signing!" The only positive was that people were inviting me to fewer and fewer meetings.

The battle within myself, the struggle between the side that wanted to live the dream and the other that wanted to be able to afford new underwear, was coming to a head and while I didn't want to admit it, I knew which side was going to win. And so, like a man about to be pushed off a ledge, the logical part of me was fighting for a toehold while at the same time trying desperately to figure out where I was going to land and how I could do it without breaking any bones.

As we walked out of the gym and into the parking lot, Ron paused at his car door.

"Your problem," he said, "is that you're over thinking it. You need to just make the leap and worry about the rest later."

"That's really comforting advice coming from a tax attorney. Tell your clients your philosophy?"

Ron smiled, "See you next week. Be ready to work those abs until you puke!"

"Great. I can hardly wait."

I got into my car and sat thinking for moment before starting the engine.

"Good thing I've been working out," I said to myself, turning the ignition and putting the car into first. "I'm going to have to talk some serious business with the ex if she's ever going to give me a break on the alimony and make this work."