In praise of endorphins

Since I’m still in job-hunting purgatory, my days lack the structure I need in order to use my time productively. I don’t like scheduling every minute of the day, and I need more down-time than some people. But I get less done when I’m less busy. And if I don’t have an urgent reason to get going in the morning, it takes me hours of partial lucidity before I’m ready to tackle my to-do list. I need the jolting shock that comes from groggily peeking at my alarm clock and realizing I should have been out of bed half an hour ago. That was pretty much how every day of my working life began. It created the necessary momentum to career through the day’s tasks in panic mode. I know it’s not healthy, but with me it’s either that or a state of marginal consciousness and minimal activity. No in-between.

The one thing that has given me a shred of normalcy is the gym. I’ve joined one that’s only a five-minute walk from our flat. It doesn’t measure up to my last couple of gyms, but it’s not too bad. I never thought I’d get into weight training, being more of a team-sports person, but, inspired by my friend Natasha’s remarkable shoulders and the fact that once you figure out the equipment it’s very escapist, I’m a total convert. It’s nice just to focus on your body, and not worry about the problems running around in your mind. And do you ever see results! (Wow, I sound like an infomercial for BowFlex or something.) Gosh darn it, if I can’t be thin, I may as well be strong. I got the first incredulous look in a while from a man surprised at how much weight I can lift/press. I'm back in form! If only I could find a palatable protein bar in this country.

Maybe increased muscle mass is interfering with my thinking, though. All of a sudden I seem to be using a lot of jock-talk in the interviews I’ve had with recruiters and prospective employers. Like “pinch-hit” or “keeping my eye on the ball” or “out of the ballpark” (though not, thankfully, “giving 110%” – yet), and (North) Americanisms such as “the buck stops here.” I don’t normally talk like that, at least not when I'm trying to impress somebody. It’s as if encountering proper Britishness brings out the colonial roughneck in me. Things just fly out of my mouth and I have a sort of out-of-body experience, wondering, in horrified awe, “What am I SAYING?” I’m also currently in the perplexing position of hearing from recruiters that I should be applying for higher-up jobs (the kind where “the ideal candidate will have a law degree, a medical degree, and two years of teaching experience” – I exaggerate only slightly) when I haven’t yet been deemed worthy of the lower-down jobs I’ve already applied for. Probably because of my baseball analogies.

Anyway, we’ve had some good news. The success in our household has won a much-deserved research scholarship. It’s refreshing when talent and hard work are justly rewarded, and I’m very proud of him.

Things got even more exciting today when the tiles in the bath buckled with a loud crack while I was enjoying a nice warm shower. Flashback to Roxton Road! In some small way I’ve missed the regular calamity of living in an apartment which could collapse with the next rainfall, with pipes that quiver and groan ominously above your head and neighbours who may or may not be certifiably insane. Makes you feel alive, you know?