ILENE TO THE WRITE - The Beginning

GLAMOUR Magazine asked for submissions. They wanted stories from women who had a story to share about their triumph over a hurdle, challenge, tough time, or insurmountable odds. It would seem my entry was not chosen - thus, no publication in GLAMOUR magazine, no $5,000.00 in prize money, no meetings with book publishers or literary agents. But I love what I wrote. And so it is the inaugural entry for the new and improved, now with more hope, ILENE TO THE WRITE. Enjoy.

DECEMBER 2008 - GLAMOUR Magazine Essay Submission

Your inboxes are probably flooded with thousands of inspirational tales of success in the wake of failure, triumph in the face of adversity: the abused wife who escaped, the housewife who launched a catering empire from her galley kitchen, the athlete who won a triathalon after chemo and a double mastectomy.

These women deserve to be celebrated as the survivors, fighters, and heroes they are but each is an anomaly, placed upon a pedestal. Their stories inspire but also alleviate our insecurities with the soothing balm of "at least I don't have it as bad as her." Logically then, for every woman inspired, there exists another who feels diminished, claiming no such accomplishment as her own which parallels those of the women profiled. So while I applaud these women, they don't speak to me or for me.

We only hear their sagas after the hurdle is cleared, the mountain is scaled, the odds defeated. What about those whose lives (there but for the grace of God) don't possess storylines worth of a Lifetime TV-movie? Who, like the overwhelming majority of your readers, are wonderful, ordinary, everyday women, wives, and mothers trying to survive each day without crumbling into a million pieces?

I'm one of those women. I'm am 38, single, childless, and living alone in Manhattan. I am unemployed and uninsured. I am a statistic.

I'm not sure how I got here but this? This was not supposed to be my life. (I'll be more people reading will relate to that one sentence than 99% of anything else printed in this magazine.) I don't have a permanent job. Just typing that sentence eats away at me. I manage to earn enough to cover my expenses. Barely. I am "freelance," a euphemism for the self-employed unemployed.

How did this happen to me? I grew up a straight-A student, gifted program in elementary school, honors classes in high school. I didn't drink, didn't smoke, didn't do any drugs. I knew I was smart (it's recently be pointed out that I was a nerd.) My entire sense of security, self-esteem, and identity was firmly rooted in the knowledge that knowledge was my strength. I left a substantial chunk of my liver in Albany yet graduated college Magna Cum Laude, Phi Beta Kappa, and top student in the Communications School. Takeaway lesson? Intelligence and hard work is rewarded.

My first real job proved that wrong; I was a secretary at an advertising agency, assigned to an upscale plumbing account. My brain cells atrophied. Two years spent languishing in the toilet, literally, ceased when I accepted a job as a concert agent's assistant at in international talent agency.

Finally!! The music industry. Despite strong suggestions to pursue a more reliable career in medicine or law or teaching, I was determined to be in the rock 'n' roll business. I was a moron.

But there was so much music! The thing I loved. The thing that moved me. Concerts, almost every night of the week. Tickets, backstage passes, guest lists, free CDs. A full social calendar came with my pay stub. It was a steep learning curve but an education I'd never get in any school setting. Baptism by fire. I stood alongside Jimmy Page and Eddie Van Halen as they took the concert stage. I hung out backstage in Rush's dressing room, watched The Allman Brothers Ban from their stage and Green Day from the soundboard. I saw The Black Crowes at CBGB's, an unknown Jewel at the teeny Ludlow Street Cafe, and bumped into (literally) Brian May while running around disoriented at the iconic Wembley Stadium. This was rock 'n' roll.

The naive, earnest, type-A, overachieving dork that was me gave 200% in an industry that didn't give a damn. Yet I loved every grueling, pride-swallowing, Swimming-With-Sharks moment of it all (except when a stapler was chucked at my head... but that's another story for another time.) "Politically correct" didn't exist. What would get you slapped with a lawsuit in corporate9-to-5 America was business as usual. The music industry remains a sexist business, a sweaty boys locker room populated by road dinosaurs, misogynists, and pigs (some of whom I've grown very fond.)

If the agency job was boot camp, being tapped to work for a music icon was Top Gun Academy. Without dwelling on details, my boss was a rock star. From New Jersey. No, not that one. The other one. With the football team. And the hair. Right. That one. Working for him was an all-consuming, endless, exhaustive quest to micromanage every facet of his career, demanding a performance standard rivaled only by NASA's "Failure Is Not An Option" ethic.

It was the greatest adventure I could have ever imagined. My passport was stamped, my worldview widened. When I think of the scope of knowledge and depth of resources I now possess, it's daunting. Plus, there were the private jets, five-star hotels, police motorcades, trendy restaurants and bars, other celebrities and dignitaries -- just another day at the office. But that wasn't MY life. My motto had always been "Embrace The Goofiness" because, honest to God, really? Who flies on a G-4 and uses an alias? Superheroes, secret agents and rock stars. Me? I was merely swept up in the jet wash.

Sometimes the important, big-picture stuff went missing amidst the flurry to book a helicopter, edit a press release, announce a world tour or drive a rhinestone-encrusted football jersey to Giants Stadium as if transporting an organ harvested for transplant. The comically tragic moments (choosing tighty-whities for a tanning bed photo makes my 'Top 10 Worst Career Moments' list) were far outnumbered by the once-in-a-lifetime experiences. A charity effort I orchestrated (concert food drives, Make-A-Wish fulfllments, political events) could fuel me for months. Any writing opportunity was a project I embraced. I always knew finding another job where I'd be as intellectually and creatively challenged and fulfilled would be a tall order.

Yet, the only thing constant is change. Performance plus personalities, multiplied by the pressure, divided by politics, minus the pride, carry the pop star... the equation brought out the best in me and, some would argue, the worst. It was time to move on.

Two years ago, I left a job I loved. It was the fated, right decision (most days I still believe this to be true.) I was excited about the future. I was assured doors would swing open with job opportunities and a bright new career path would emerge.

At first, accustomed to running at 180 m.p.h. 24/7, no longer being employed felt like slamming on the brakes and skidding into a brick wall. But then I learned to enjoy not jumping to accommodate someone else's needs. I detoxed. My stomach lining healed and the need for Tums and Pepto-Bismol dissipated. I slept (a lot.) No mental to-do lists kept me from falling asleep. No panic attacks jolted me upright at 3 a.m. I'd wake in the morning well-rested, relieved I hadn't let anyone down before my iced coffee.

When I worked for the band, I was rarely home. I was in my office or at a work event or on the road. My apartment had minimal decor, little warmth, and no style. I removed the scant evidence of my industry career from my walls; it was too painful to see everyday. Grammy Award certificates, tour plaques, framed photos -- all sent to long-term storage (read: Mom & Dad's house.) Years of clutter, accumulated while busy organizing the lives and careers of others, was dropped off at Salvation Army and Housing Works thrift shops, sometimes twice a week.

I hit Home Depot with a gift card and a vengeance. I painted my entire apartment (two coats, Sedona brown) by myself then spent two days too sore to move. But my apartment was morphing into a warm sanctuary in which I could recuperate.

I tackled a monster t0-do list. I purchased a cell phone. I set up a personal e-mail and self-installed high-speed internet in my "home corner office" which was just the corner of the studio apartment I called home. I updated my resume and applied for jobs. As if I was anywhere near ready to head back into the work world.

I gave blood. I visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Museum of Jewish Heritage, attended a Letterman taping, saw Broadway shows at half-price, and visited St. Patrick's Cathedral for the first time. I went to Washington, D.C. and Atlantic City with my mom and joined both my parents for midweek, midday meals at leisure. I watched my first Hitchcock film, read my first Jane Austen novel, and uploaded more than 500 cds onto my iPod. I tore through my DVD list, my bookshelf, and, finally, my address book.

I was given plenty of latitude during the Job-That-Ate-My-Life era but now friends enthusiastically welcome the less-burdened version of me into their homes for extended visits. I enjoyed family without excusing myself from conversations (or Passover Seders) to take "urgent" phone calls. Sunday nights were no longer ruined by my BlackBerry buzzing to life with an onslaught of passive-aggressive e-mails to tacked Monday morning.

In fact, my BlackBerry hardly buzzed at all anymore. The phone stopped ringing and the e-mails stopped coming in. It suddenly seemed so clam, so quiet. All those things I took to seriously, so much of myself dedicated to this job, all the energy and emotion and devotion - what the hell was it for? We weren't curing cancer? It was only rock 'n' roll.

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So here we are, December 2008. I've begun this essay a dozen times, always stepping away from the computer frustrated, hoping I'd return with a new ending. This is the part where I share the details of my new, improved life and wax poetic about it being worth the struggle. I regale you with tales of reinventing myself, rebuilding my career, rediscovering myself, and succeeding. Yeah, sorry -- can't do that.

I'm still in Act II. The happily-ever-after Act III doesn't exist (yet.) But why wait to share my story? I am an embedded reporting, coming to you live from the trenches. If you read further, do so knowing there's no Hollywood ending.

The entertainment industry, especially music, was collapsing in on itself long before the current economic crisis knocked it on its ass. And though I networked and interviewed, applied for jobs and nudged former colleagues to keep an ear out for potential gigs (within the music biz and beyond,) nothing stuck.

Those who have tried to help me land a job may have no idea how much their concern and encouragement has meant to me, even if the intended result didn't come to pass. But in this climate, most people look out for themselves first, even the good guys. I have, however, been deluged with unsolicited advice, some from those genuinely interested in my success but some from people confident they'd never find themselves in my predicament:

It's the industry. It's the economy. It's me. The New York job market is flooded. Move to LA. My resume is too specific; my resume is too generic. I'm networking with people who already know me; I should solicit strangers. Use a headhunter; wait for a recruiter to find me. Go back to school. Take an entry level position in a new industry. I should blog. I should write a tell all. The onslaught of mixed messages are deafening so thanks to everyone offering me their two cents, I'm left holding a jar full of pennies but still have no career.

I know many have it worse than I. But the point of this essay isn't to single me out as an exception; it's to give voice to the millions of us who are, for whatever reason, by destiny or design, stuck in a moment. It's about surviving the suffocating burden of everyday, ordinary life.

So how do I manage? For whatever they're worth, here are some of my mantras which may (or may not) help others stuck in their own moments.

1) FRUGAL IS THE NEW BLACK
Make no mistake; I was never particularly high-paid nor did I live high on the hog. But life these days is different. Free is good. Samples are awesome. Taxicabs are avoided (my calves are rocks from miles of walking.) Vacations are a luxury, first-run movies a rare treat, and dining out a carefully calculated allocation of funds. Shopping no longer passes as weekend entertainment. Daily contact lenses last two days if you store them overnight in saline. Life goes on without HBO. I cut coupons, avoid brand names, buy less fresh meat and produce, and drink mostly tap water; alcohol is a delicacy. I do laundry at the folks' and pilfer CostCo bulk buys from mom. Whereas I once slapped down the corporate AmEx for business expenses and surprised friends by picking up a dinner tab on my own dime, I'm not OK when someone treats me to a meal or a manicure or an airline ticket to visit them out of town. Though uncomfortable at first, I am appreciative, knowing in the grand circle of give-and-take, it is simply my turn to graciously accept until that time when I can once again graciously give. I am humbled.

2) THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS 'TOO SMART'
I was told this was one of my many faults. Speaking with me reminded people I was smarter and therefore they did not like me. Too bad. Though it might have made life easier, I refused to dumb myself down then and I won't start now. I might be quieter these days; my self-esteem and exuberance have been bruised but I'll venture to bet that I'm even smarter now, having treated these past two years reading, writing, living and learning as an education. Autodidactic is a good trait, even if its only reward is knowledge in and of itself.

3) TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE
Lots of people believed me too entrenched in my boss' career. Some assumed the job was my whole life and a handful insisted it was my identity. They were dead wrong. I always knew who Ilene was. I know how I contorted and distorted her to create the versions of me which best accommodated each colleague's needs. I know what brought out my worst demons when prodded by adversaries and what elicited my better angels. I know where my talents lie. I know what I believe in and what I value. Nothing in the past two years has changed that. A simple metal sign hangs in my home: "integrity." I played the game and I lost but I left it all out on the field and walked away with my integrity.

4) MY FAMILY ROCKS
Immediate and extended, they have been incredibly supportive, even those who, initially, has scoffed at my career goals. The rule has always been "Ilene Takes Care Of Ilene." Except for run-of-the-mill flare-ups (adolescent Mean Girls trouble or a devastating break-up,) I'd only felt that rule waver once: being alone in Manhattan on 9/11. But now, as I hustle to patchwork-quilt together a "freelance" career which covers my rent, it feels as if Ilene can't take care of Ilene. I know my parents worry, which makes me worry and feel guilty for being a burden. My dad reassured me, "You are the single most capable person I have ever known. You'll figure this out." But not knowing what tomorrow holds scares the crap out of me. Mom and Dad would help with money though it would kill me to accept. It's heartwarming to know they offered, unprompted. I am blessed.

5) I GET BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS
Funny thing "friendship." Amazing how many friends you have in sunshine and how quickly they scatter when storm clouds appear on the horizon. My real friends never gave a damn what I did for a living. I can count on one hand the friends who met the band. My real friends have been checking in on me, keeping in touch, keeping me busy, keeping my spirits up. A few proved unable to extend their friendship to me during this journey and, though painful, the choice to sever ties with those unworthy was a necessity.
If you leave a job, there are those you know you'll never see again; your relationships were strictly business. But after nine years with one organization, I'd build strong friendships too. These were my sounding boards, my comrades, my bitches-get-stuff-done squadron, the voices on the other end of the line who made me laugh when all I really wanted to do was hide under my desk and cry. Some of these friends were among those I considered closest therefore, their abandonment cut twice as deep. No longer on hand to make their jobs easier, or help them appear smarter, or deliver my boss on a silver platter, I served no purpose.
On the flip side, there are work friends who have nursed and coached me through this transition, not defining my value by my job title. All I can offer these loyal cheerleaders are the same shoulder to lean upon and ear to bend, should they be needed (plus, a long-promised pair of pom-poms in the colors of their choice once I"m back on my financial and professional feet again!)
I cherish my go-to girls (and guy) who would be on my doorstep in the dead of night if called, no questions asked. Our relationships have strengthened during my odyssey even as they too navigate obstacles in their own lives. I couldn't survive without their unconditional support. They are my silver lining and remind me what truly matters in life.

6) JUST KEEP LAUGHING
Mark Twain said, "Humor is the great thing, the saving thing." True. If I didn't laugh, I'd break into tears every hour on the half-hour. I grew up in a boisterous household, full of laughter, where sharp wit and silliness was encouraged and nurtured, so it makes sense I'd rely upon my sense of humor to sustain me when things seem bleak. I might come off sarcastic, or catty, or glib, even slightly tainted by sour grapes but, these are merely comic defenses helping me stay positive and optimistic. Trust me, when most people as, "How are you?" they really don't care about your doubts and fears and ever-increasing Visa bill. If I didn't make light of myself and my situation, I'd depress all whom I encountered. For a long time, my emotions were so raw that looking back was painful but now, euphoric recall allows me to smile and laugh aloud, remembering was a unique, hilarious, exciting ride it was. e.e. cumming wrote, "The most wasted of all days is one without laughter" and I agree. Sure, I have days when I am depressed and feel like such a loser I don't want to leave my bed yet even that is pathetically amusing to me.

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Life just wasn't supposed to be this hard. I am exhausted. I played by the rules and where did it get me? I shouldn't care but I can name people relishing my failure. And though I never defined myself by my job, the idea that I've already lived the headline of my obituary terrifies and saddens me.

I know some readers are rolling their eyes. No, I don't have the blessings/burdens of a marriage, children, a mortgage, college loans or car payments, and please don't think me unaware of my good fortune. Still, I struggle to understand how I ended up 'here.' Friends assure me "everything happens for a reason" and "something awesome is just around the corner." I know they mean it but sometimes it seems like they're more desperate for a happy ending so they can continue to believe that things work out for good people. Maybe this is a cosmic sabbatical, my well-earned rest after twenty years of busting my ass for everyone else's glory, the half-time before a record-breaking second half of the big game. Everyone swears I'll look back on these days fondly, once I'm again swamped with work and longing for my lowkey, freelance lifestyle. Perhaps, but the wait between the now and the eventual seems eternal.

So I continue to network and apply for jobs, taking work wherever I can find it. And I write, be it for hire or as a personal creative outlet.) I am surviving in Manhattan, in itself an accomplishment. I'm not alone on my personal journey to destinations unknown and I'm not alone in the bigger, existential struggle. Even if the ending has yet to be written, if it brings just one smile of recognition to a person's face by reading this and realizes she's not alone, my story's been worth sharing.

I've grown and I've changed these past two years. I believe the key to enlightenment is actually lightening up. I've enjoyed my life and the people in it more. Everyday I remind myself that I am healthier than before, physically, mentally, and emotionally (though insurance would be nice.) I've retained my integrity and my belief in myself. Thank God, my sense of humor has remained in tact and every bit as warped as ever. Most importantly, I have my family and my irrepressible, devoted friends who are my oxygen.

So, I'm doing OK. Could be better. I can't offer a halcyon conclusion because I don't know what that might entail, when it might happen or if it ever will.

Here's hoping 2009 brings wonderful things for us all. Perhaps by the time a winner for this essay contest is chosen, my Act III will have begun. But for now, even if it's just a red Solo tumbler, my cup runneth over.