October 14-18, 2011: Of Rocky, Muddy, Fluffy and Toothaches

Friday, October 14

I cram Fluffy into his cat carrier, a process akin to wrestling a size-40 ass into a pair of size-36 jeans. It’s a tight fit. Several minutes later, the vet does his thing: He blows anesthetic gas into the carrier so that he can take bladder X-rays of the ill-humored beast without being attacked. All this effort is for not—the X-rays reveal nothing. And for that, another $150 is added to my Fluffy tab. I briefly think about sending the Fluffster to a “farm,” but my brainstorm quickly fades. The kids would never believe he went to a farm instead of his eternal reward. For better or worse (including financial ruin), we’re stuck with him.

Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for a toothache of epic proportions to set in, signaling the need for a root canal. It’s been 24 hours, and my head hasn’t exploded. That’s good, right?

Saturday, October 15

Still waiting.

Sunday, October 16

Still waiting.

Monday, October 17

I’m strangely relaxed, so much so that I’m on the verge of getting really anxious about it. Why the sudden calm nerves? I’m not exactly sure, but I have some theories: the cleansing effects of exercising at lunchtime each day; the spiritual release of occasionally strumming the acoustic guitar that’s leaning against my dining room table; the fact that I’m still waiting.

Or maybe—just maybe—it’s this: I’ve moved from “unemployed” to a category I had never even heard of until the economy melted down a few years ago. Policy wonks call it “underemployed”—I call it progress.

Slowly but surely, my days are being filled with tasks, tasks that pay money. It isn’t nearly as much money as I was making at Crushed Soul Publishing, but any type of paycheck is better than no paycheck at all.

Better yet, I’m doing it on my own terms. I feel kind of like Rocky Balboa scaling the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art in Rocky. Not the out-of-shape, beaten-down-by-life Rocky Balboa limping upward midway through the movie. No, we’re talking about the kick-ass, pageantry-filled Rocky Balboa toward the end, the chiseled fighter who sprints to the top of those suckers and then jumps around confidently, all the while looking down on the streets of a city that will soon belong to him.

I’m sprinting up the museum steps, and it’s only a matter of time before I arrive at the status of “fully employed,” working either for myself or someone else.

Of course, being a cynic at heart, I can’t shake my nagging worries. Several movies into the Rocky series, remember, our hero winds up brain-damaged and destitute.

How will the story play out for the neurotic protagonist in Unemployment Lines? Who knows? I’ll worry about the future when I get there. Right now, I’m thinking about another ass-kicker, Muddy Waters. I'm living by his gravelly delivered words in “Mannish Boy”:

Oooooooh yeah, ooooh yeah

Everythin’, everythin’, everythin’s gonna be all right