edge of the continent

The office I work for is moving into new digs this week. Because of an unfortunately heinous series of deadlines I had to meet, I wasn’t able to start packing until the last possible moment: I spent four hours sorting through files I rarely look through anymore and hunting down boxes for my stash of letterhead and highlighters.

When I move to a new home, I pause to acknowledge the place I’ve left behind, even if it was terrible and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Perhaps I put too much weight into this practice, but I was surprised that we didn’t stop for at least a moment to note the closing of this chapter in our work. The company has been located at that address for over a decade, I’ve been there for most of it, and we really grew and took off in that place. Granted, our new home is shiny and has nicely lit restrooms (thank goodness), but the old building — with its lethargic A/C and cruddy bathrooms — played a significant role in our history. Oh, the stories it could tell….

I was even more dismayed that there was no pizza to be found. Seriously. Packing for a move = pizza (and a six-pack of beer, but we’re talking work hours and all). Now, it’s possible that I’m cranky because I didn’t have time to eat lunch anyway, but that has no bearing on what I felt was a serious breach of moving protocol. There was also no loud rock music blasting through the halls, or wild expressions of glee as coworkers dropped scads of non-critical paperwork into the dumpster… all told, it was an oddly quiet, anticlimactic end to an era.

I consider myself to be much more responsible about my finances than my younger, ignorant, broke-ass self used to be. I have retirement and savings accounts that I contribute to and monitor regularly. I’m slowly educating myself on how to maximize those savings and where I can stand to diversify my accounts. I save a good chunk of my income for long- and short-term needs, apparently at a rate far above the national average according to a segment on last weekend’s Marketplace Money podcast (1% — I knew the average was low, but still). I’m building an emergency fund and sock away a bit for my nieces every month. I also check a different credit report every four months, balance my accounts each week, and track nearly every dime that comes my way.

I should temper this by adding that I’m hardly angelic about it, or sane consistent, even: I can easily drop a c-note while shopping for household items, I sometimes act weirdly cheapskate-ish about a $4 coffee, and I struggle to allow myself to purchase big-ticket items that I’ve been actively saving for. So I strive for a more comfortable balance between my persistent, deep-rooted fear of being broke again (for whatever the reason: accident, irresponsibility, job loss) and enjoying my money with wild abandon.

One area where I still struggle to be more responsible is with my tax returns. Last night, there I was: preparing my taxes at the last possible minute. Again. It’s a habit I’ve not successfully shaken since filing my first return some fifteen years ago: I clearly remember my then-boyfriend’s best friend asking, with great derision, just what the hell I was thinking as we creeped along in an endless line of cars at the post office at nine p.m. on tax day.

I was shamed, of course, because I had delayed our evening of hanging out and doing a whole lot of nothing in particular together for hours on end. Because all that hanging out was just so pressing.

But I had not been shamed enough to gather my paperwork — a single, tiny W2 and a simple form — in order to file earlier in the tax season that followed, or the one after that. The single instance when I did file early — and I mean really early, like first-week-of-February early — was the year I decided to get smarter about my money and began aggressively taking responsibility for the mess it was in.

Otherwise, each April since has been marked by a last-minute filing hell. It’s maddening, to be sure. Additionally, I feel a bit dumb for waiting as long as I did this time, as I am actually getting some money back. It’s spilt milk and all at this point; I’ll get it right next year.

This past weekend was the first in months when I hadn’t experienced the crushing fear of imminent failure: lying in wait for me around the corner, all gnarly of tooth and stinking of schadenfreude.

Late nights, lack of sleep, bad meals, no meals, angry skin, broken back. I clench my jaw in my sleep when I’m particularly stressed, which has resulted in some crazy head pains. If I don’t go out immediately after work on a Friday night I’m in a deep sleep by nine, too exhausted by the week to do much else. While I don’t expect the start of every weekend to be an exercise in hedonism, crashing — badly — wasn’t the alternative I had pictured in my head. When I have been out, the overwhelm still ran unabated beneath my skin, coloring my enjoyment of the evening.

Frequently now, I catch myself saying, “If I can just soldier on through until [date], it’ll be okay.” It’s one way to push through the mountain of work, but what a toll it takes on the body and the spirit.

So this weekend: I worked for a few hours to get caught up. Bought red curry paste and dried pears, toilet paper and a toothbrush. Filled the tank in my car and stood outside in the heat, reminded of the summer to come. Listened to this week’s podcasts from NPR while I cooked a nice meal with the curry and the pears and some shrimp and sweet potatoes. Colored over the last of the previous summer’s highlights, which had passed the ’slightly trashy’ and ‘completely unkempt’ stages some time ago. Washed laundry. Called my sister. Tried to allow the panic run through me, rather than over me.

If I can just soldier on through the next six weeks, it’ll be okay.

*sigh* I don’t know what happened to my last post, but it’s up now… a month after the fact. Perhaps if I posted more often, I might have noticed it sooner ;)

Speaking of theater, I have been taking advantage of various discounts and ticket specials that I’ve found for local theater and music groups. March brought an abundance of performances my way, which was: a) a lot of fun, and b) more culture than I’ve been exposed to since last semester’s Tuesday night bio lab.

I scored a seat through work to Permanent Collection, a play staged by Mo’olelo that looked at issues of race, class, and visibility. The questions that were raised in the discussion that followed have stayed with me and renewed my interest in thoughtful dialogue about race in this country. Work connections also provided me with a chance to see the musical Dancing in the Dark at the Old Globe, which starred Scott Bakula. Who knew he could sing?

Additionally, I saw The Clean House at the San Diego Rep, which had the most satisfying tearing-up-a-room scene I’ve witnessed. And last Friday, I went to my first opera in years: a double bill of Cavalleria Rusticana and Pagliacci at the San Diego Opera, where I heard the famous “Vesti la giubba” aria live and in its entirety for the first time. You’ve probably heard a tenor belting out “Ridi, Pagliaccio!” in a commercial for something nonsensical, such as discovering the wonder of fake butter or embracing satellite television over traditional cable, right? This was better. You can listen to Enrico Caruso’s version for yourself here: (”I Pagliacci - Vesti La Giubba March 17, 1907″, half-way down the page).