Monday, November 16, 2009

Cheesey Pumps

Hello interwebs.

I'm blogging on my lunch hour -- I've got a "day job". I didn't know it was a DJ until recently, however. These things always sneak up on me. I've never been someone who absolutely knew what she wanted from day one and even when I was still sporting pigtails my hobbies varied day-to-day, and as I get older, month-to-month. Like those cartoons where the mouse begins to float and sway after a sumptuous cheesey perfume wafts in his direction, I am drawn to many things. In my cartoon, seventeen aromas are intermingling and I look like a drunken fool shifting from left to right on my tippy-toes trying to savor as much of the heavenly odors as possible. (In real life, I collapse, exhausted from the smelling-overload and my desire to do-all-know-all-now-now-now!!!) I've watched as my 'career' veered into a new direction every couple of years, following the cheesey-trail to professionalism that never seems to end. I am still drifting. Still following scents and waiting for my cheese to appear with a knife propped inside its oozing goodness, its cartoon mouth screaming “Eaaat me Shannon, I’m scrumptious!”. (I’m living in France now, so the smelly/gooey Brie has replaced the firm Sharp Cheddar of my youth.)

As with my bunioned right foot, I always needed to try on the shoe to see if it fit. I was never a home-shopping-network type. No, I had to go to the store, evaluate the options for at least an hour, exhaust the salespeople with questions, try on every single pair, pacing back and forth before I deciding if I would adopt them. The salespeople hate me. The shoe store is littered with foam insides, crumpled paper, empty boxes and mateless shoes strewn everywhere like discarded lovers. The delicious apple-red stilettos that drew me into the shoe store usually hurt too much to find a place in my closet and were replaced by sensible black flats. I do own a few pairs of heels, my babies, my cherished treasures, but I have so few occasions to walk around in them and bask in the pleasure of extravagance they afford.

Having already tried so many cheeses, bought so many pairs of shoes, I thought that now, at almost twenty-eight years old I had found it. The coveted fromage was being “dégusté” while clacking across the room doing the “happy dance” in my perfect pumps. When I got my first taste of Project Management, I thought -- THIS is my career. THIS is what I was meant to do. THIS is what I love. It actually does makes sense in many ways; I’m not going to say I don’t enjoy the flavor and fit of this DJ. Consider the prerequisites:
- Detail oriented (aka: obsessive much?) => Check.
- Organized (aka: control freak are we?) => Check.
- Delivery proficiency (aka: worry fanatically about things that won’t come to fruition for months?) => Check.
- Management skills (aka: master of manipulation?) => Check.
- Handle stress (aka: pretend you’re not worried about it, then whine to your husband all night?) => Check.

Yep. Seemed like a pretty good fit. Now, a few years under my belt and a "senior" status just around the corner, another irresistible fragrance is snaking attractive curls in front of my nostrils.

Do I follow the trail? The bouquet is enticing and my mouth is watering already. Do I exchange the comfortable flats for the latest hot-pink, diamond-encrusted heels that make me walk a little taller? Maybe it’s too soon to tell. For now, I’ll just try them on and see if they make me want to dance, or if I get burdened with blisters.

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