I always get the feeling there’s an edge of mystery that shrouds my job, and subsequently me as a person.
Recently, I spoke to a news-writing college class and during question-and-answer time, one girl asked what my hobbies are.
Yes, some nights I resign from the office late, and sit on a bed that’s not mine drinking an individual-sized -bottle of wine while reading a 15,000-word essay on the life of Frank Sinatra. I may also chew sunflower seeds.
And then, in the morning, I get up too early, shower in a shower that’s not mine, dress in front of a mirror, wish for a split-second somebody was there to kiss me goodbye, and then I’m off, having already read 10 emails, responded to text messages, and depending on the morning organized photographers to cover breaking news.
By the time I hit the office, I’m running until my self-imposed 30-minute lunch, and then running again until 12 or 14 hours after leaving the bed that’s not mine, I’m collapsing in it again.
But, I do have hobbies.
I like to train my dog, and watch my little brother play baseball. I love to write, and sit on the back porch with a glass of wine. I like to shop for new clothes on the days I don’t feel fat, and on the days I do, I like to sulk. I seek out my sanctuary in the form of lakes, woods, our back yard, the horses. I enjoy being with my family.
All things that are the antithesis to the fabric of my work life, which revolves around stress, editorial decisions, putting out fires between my entity and others, organizing, planning, trying my best to make sure we put our best foot forward every day, especially Sunday.
I guess it is a mystery life, but to me it’s just mine. It’s a whirlwind, it doesn’t stop unless by some force of will I tell it to, and I spend a lot of moments just…tired.
But fulfilled. Happy. Living on the precipitous edge of adrenaline that sends me into news heaven and physically, on the brink of exhaustion and dipping into it sometimes only to recover my second wind that carries me through the next breaking headline and the next and the next.
Until I get home, and I feed my dogs with the same precision I write my column. And my method of organizing family dinners resembles the way I conduct my morning editorial meetings.
And then I walk around as long as possible without my bra on, and I can be silent, or giddy, or bitchy, I can laugh at my own jokes, and first try telling them, I can clean, and do laundry, which is theraputic for me.
And when my colleagues ask me, “What are you doing this weekend?” I mysteriously answer, “I’ll be shampooing carpets.”