There is nothing like calamity to put everything in perfect perspective. For all of my woe over my role as the Temptress, and knowing that this is not my dream job, suddenly I am grateful to show up in the morning and find the office still operating. I start thinking thoughts like, “If I can just work through tomorrow at 5pm – if we can just stay open through then – I will have earned enough to pay my rent next week.” I am grateful for every hour of income I get – because all of a sudden, nothing is guaranteed.

I suppose that nothing is ever guaranteed – we just trick ourselves into thinking that it is, that we know where the road is leading.

Last night, I went running with the East Nasties. I’m faster than the slow group, but slower than the fast group, so I found myself in the no-man’s-land of running between the two packs on my own. It was dark, and eventually I realized that I didn’t know the route. “What if I get lost?” I worried. I was all alone.

But then I noticed one man a significant distance ahead, and I decided that I would lock my eyes on him. As long as I had him in my sight, I would know where to make the turns.

I don’t know where the road is leading. I cannot see the path. I am sure that I will need to turn soon – that the route is about to look very different – but I have no way of knowing when the shift in direction will occur. All that I can do is put one foot in front of the other, and fix my eyes on the One who has gone before me.

**UPDATE**

The sharp turn came at 1:30pm.  I am now unemployed.

This is what happens when an international financial firm goes down in flames:

The CPA with two small children and a blue-collar husband rushes out of the office, not returning for a half an hour. She wears sunglasses to hide the red eyes and the fear.

The executive assistants commiserate as the systems get shut down one by one. “We have no access to our accounts.” “I can’t get into my email.” “Why won’t this program open up?”

The unflappable, jovial advisor with the infectious laugh and generous spirit has a vacant look behind his eyes. He smiles, but only out of defeat.

When the temp-receptionist asks what she can do to help, she is met with a silent motion from her co-worker: pray.

All employees suddenly become equals. There are no titles – only the shared experience of crumbling stability.

The boss nervously jokes that he has dibs on the artwork on the walls. No one laughs.

All workers are warned to not answer the phones, and, under no circumstances, speak to the press. This is difficult when reporters plant themselves outside the office doors.

The partner from Memphis who frequents the office gives the temp-receptionist his business card, telling her that if they don’t see each other again, to please keep in touch.

No one is given any information. No one knows what is going on. No one has any idea what to expect, and wonders when the SEC will show up.

It feels like the Titanic sinking, and the members of the string quartet shaking hands and exchanging their final words before getting back to business, playing their songs until they are swallowed by the ocean and silenced.

I am blogging to say that I cannot blog today. I am too busy dead-bolting the office doors to keep the press away, abandoning my front-lines lobby perch, and hunkering down in the back at a desk with a spectacular view.

Yes, seriously. It’s been very exciting – in an “I might vomit” kind of way.

That is all I can say at the moment.

I do not have the vocabulary to understand what is going on, but all I can say is that the mood in my financial office today is “terrified” and “frantic.” It is times like this that make me glad that I have no money to speak of, because money makes certain people greedy and fearful.

And when those people screw up, it leaves a lot of honest, hard-working, generous individuals screwed over. My heart hurts for my co-workers.

At church on Sunday night, the pastor mentioned that in all of his interactions with people of my generation, the overwhelming majority of us feel apathetic and bored. I know that I do – at least, very often I do. We’re all wrestling with the questions, “What is my purpose?” “What am I good at?” “What is going to fulfill me?” “What am I doing with my life?”

I have no idea. It freaks me out. And I have to admit – when I was 13, I wasn’t exactly envisioning a future of being several years out of college, single, uninsured, totally broke, and working a dead-end temp job. I must make my parents so proud…

On Monday, I had lunch with some girlfriends. One is a gifted freelance writer – on her own schedule, working on a book that is going to be incredible. One works with the baseball team of a local university – the lone girl surrounded by cute boys all day long. One is legitimately famous – all over CMT – gorgeous and glamorous and currently nominated for, you know, a GRAMMY.

And after lunch, I went back to my silent, hourly-wage temp job – the one that is rapidly sucking my mind dry, like that tube at the dentist that catches all of your extra spit.

It’s hard to not play the comparison game. It’s hard to not look around and consequently feel lame. It’s hard to not give into the voices that say that my life is purposeless. It’s hard to fight the urge to allow my circumstances to define me. It’s hard to not feel apathetic and bored.

But I don’t want to be too big to do something small.

I have a choice – to focus on all of the bad things, or on all of the good things. Today, I choose to be grateful for a job that pays my bills. For a quiet room to sit and write in. For no one hanging over my shoulder. For the opportunity to be in touch every day with the people that I love. For the gift of no job-related stress. For a bottomless bowl of office candy.

And… for the abundance of good things that I have going on OUTSIDE of work.

I have no guarantee that I’ll ever have a job that is fulfilling – but maybe my job isn’t SUPPOSED to fulfill me. In the meantime, there is something to be said for patience.

Co-worker: Have you reached 1,000 yet?

Me: YES! A couple of days ago!

Co-worker: Only 2,500 to go.

Me: What…? Oh. I thought you were talking about Facebook friends.

He was not. He was talking about stuffing envelopes.

- – - – - – - -

I helped decorate the lobby for Christmas yesterday, which included the blasting of holiday music and the imbibing of some very strong Cape Cods – not that you hear me complaining. The afternoon flew by – I was an envelope-labeling MANIAC.

Also, don’t worry. With the addition of Christmas decorations, I am no longer alone all day.

Quick status update: I am still a temp worker.

Over nine months have passed, and I am still… not sure if I’m even employed.

I don’t know if it’s good news or bad news that they have started giving me tasks. Good news because it keeps me occupied, and gives me something to think about other than “WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE.” Bad news because the latest task is addressing, stuffing, sealing, stamping, and mailing 3,500 brochures. Brochures that will probably immediately be thrown into recycle bins nationwide.

Yesterday, I spent all day working on this project, and got 500 envelopes addressed and stuffed. Not sealed. Not stamped. Not mailed. And only 500. At this rate, the remainder of 2008 is looking quite festive.

Julie, the eternal beautiful optimist, is confident that there is a fulfilling career out there for me. I typically respond with a grunt. But I suppose that is why I need Julie.

Speaking of Julie, did you hear? Did you know? I’M GETTING A ROOMMATE. In January, Julie and I are moving in together; after many years of being a live-aloner, the timing is right for me to join the legions of “people who don’t have to drink alone.” I have to admit that I’m a little bit nervous about the prospect of having a roommate – but more nervous on Julie’s behalf than my own. I mean, what if I’m a terrible person to live with? It could be. I’m particular and introverted and probably really annoying.

Not Julie. Julie is great. Wonderful. Kind-hearted. Generous. Absolutely lovely. A nicer person than I will ever be, and one that I never get tired of being around. I LOVE HER. And I think it will be good for me to compromise and communicate and share life with someone else. I’m calling her my “starter husband.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. What was WITH me yesterday?

Maybe you could tell from the blog, maybe not – but I seriously lost my mind for a few hours in the afternoon. Upon further introspection, I blame it on the fact that my life is completely out of balance.

I spend 8-9 hours each day in complete solitude at a desk. Those of you who have come to visit me at work know that I’m not joking – it is dead silent. No one – no, seriously, no one – is around; everyone else works back behind a heavy glass door, and I rarely see a soul. As a strong introvert, I’m probably able to handle this kind of isolation better than most. But… I while away the hours over-analyzing the lack of purpose in my life, and exploring the vacuous far-reaches of the internet – which, by the way, I’m pretty sure that I found the outer limits. I have now seen the entire World Wide Web.

Then, when the whistle blows, I leave work and rush off to a variety of social engagements, throwing myself into “extroversion” mode, and staying out way too late most nights.

It’s like jumping from a hot tub into a snow bank, rolling around, and then jumping back in: TOTALLY PAINFUL. Extremes are not good – and currently, I feel like a pendulum swinging back and forth, back and forth. It’s clear to me that something needs to change.

It would be awesome to have a real job. One with a salary and benefits. One in which I’m contributing to something. One that I like. One in which I am saying more than “Thank you for calling…” and “One moment, please.” One that utilizes my gifts – because I have them! I do have gifts.

Not to knock the temp job, because as far as temp jobs go, this one is pretty sweet. But ultimately, it’s not a good thing for a girl’s main goal each day to be “post a blog.”

Who wants to hire me?

No, for real. The search is on. Let us pray.

There is a client who frequents the office. I know his name, and respectfully call him “Doctor _________.” Because he is a doctor.

Except no. No he isn’t. Today, my co-worker said, “Why do you call him ‘doctor’? He’s not a doctor.”

Why did I think he was? What did I mis-hear, or mis-interpret, or just make up? I HAVE NO IDEA. I am completely delusional. I stopped him today and said, red-faced, “I’m really sorry – it’s been brought to my attention that you are not, in fact, a doctor. And I don’t know why, but I’ve been calling you ‘doctor’ for so long… I feel silly.”

And so he told me the story of a woman he once met years ago, and how she insisted upon being called “doctor,” even though she just had an online education certifying her with a “Doctorate of Transcendental Meditation.”

If that works, then I declare myself to have a “Doctorate of Cheese.”

- – - – - – - -

What are your weekend plans? I want to know. From ALL of you.

The phone here at work just rang – a rare occurrence at this particular financial institution. I answered, and this is what I heard:

“Hi, I’m being detained at the Davidson County jail, and need bail money. I’ve been framed. This is my one phone call. Can you help me out?”

“Um, are you serious?”

“Yes. Very serious.” He told me his name, and what kind of a doctor he is.

“Are you a client here?”

“No.”

“Well. We’re not a bank, per se. We’re more along the lines of private wealth management.”

“Okay. But can you help me? This is my ONE phone call.” The panic in his voice was evident.

“Um… well… I’m just the [temp!] receptionist. Let me toss you over to Sandra.”

I transferred the call, and watched the light that indicated Sandra’s phone ringing blink… and blink… and blink… but she was away from her desk. She never answered.

I have failed him.

As the Temptress, I make an hourly wage, which equates to a not-very-big salary. Don’t get me wrong: for doing nothing, I make a fortune. And even if I don’t have a lot of extra cash, my bills always get paid. I am grateful for this temp job that is allowing me to have an experience here in Nashville.

But extra money is never a bad thing, right?

So I am currently doing a trial run with one of those Type From Home programs. Companies all over the world have scanned in old documents, and they need people to transcribe them. This seemed like a good fit for me because 1) I can do it at work, and 2) who is the valedictorian of typing? It sounded like easy cash.

But the program that I am using has some stipulations. There is a minimum requirement of pages to be typed each month, and if you don’t meet it – sorry, no money, not even for the pages that you DO type. There is also a maximum number of pages you can type – you may not exceed X number of pages, and therefore, X number of dollars, each month.

Doing the math, I figured out that I must type 15 pages a day to meet the minimum requirement. Not bad – especially when WHAT ELSE AM I GOING TO DO AT MY DESK? So yesterday was my first day, my grand experiment, and I was excited to get going.

Maniacally excited. I typed 75 pages.

When I walked out of work, my eyeballs fell out of my skull and rolled across the parking lot like marbles.

But you know me – I love money! I love cash! Being poor is balderdash!

So I went home, and typed some more – mostly Iranian medical documents about menstruation and chemical compounds. Adding up the pages as I went along, I started calculating the things I was going to buy: a new bottle of perfume, a ticket to Seattle, a new car… visions of Anthropologie dresses and massages and all of the things I’ve always wanted but never been able to buy… Type From Home is going to be my ticket to financial freedom!

But just before bed, I checked the website one more time… and my Blimp of a Thousand Dreams was slashed by the Grand Knife of Reality: there is a 50 page/day maximum. Anything above that is not only deleted, but then subtracted from your total. You type 51, your total is 49. You type 52, your total is 48. So because I typed close to 100 pages, I logged nearly zero.

I have a bad feeling about this.