So, I recently spent two months out of town working on a show (Hooray, Kansas City!!), which was glorious. But, that meant that my return to the city was both stupid exciting and stupid terrifying. Why? Well, a few reasons.
For A) Being removed from any one place for a long time--specifically a place as gi-normous as this particular town--can be a little disconcerting.
What the shit can I expect from this place once I get back?
...I mean, I don't know.
Will it have forgotten about me?
Noooo, not if you kept reminding people that you exist during your absence...But otherwise, yeah, probably.
Will I be overwhelmed?
Noooo, not if you weren't before. ...But if you WERE before, then yeah, probably.
Do I actually really belong there?
Well, that all depends on the feeling you get as you're officially flying back in over the city. If that feels good--then you're good. ...OK, I guess that's specifically just how I judge things.
So, there's that.
For B) The job-factor.
I have had some kind of job pretty consistently since I was 14ish, so when I don't have a job, panic ensues. I need a job. I don't come from the kind of family where there's parents who can just cover your financialness for however long you ask them to, I come from the kind of family who says "Here's a Target-gift card and a jar of your favorite Wegmans Reduced Fat Peanut Spread--love you!" And I love that, and I love them for that. But, that reasserts the fact that I'm a bitch who Needs. A. Job. Fortunately for me, I have some pretty amazing friends who pretty much always find a way to never ever let this kind of panic last for too long. (PS, I love you and THANK you!)
So, I do actually have a job. And I'm working for my friend (awesome) at a certain NYC-based theatrical institution (awesome) where I have the most flexible hours in the universe (awesome awesome awesome). However, whereas the hours are flexible, there aren't many of them--and the pay matches this much. Which means that I need a second job. I am not unaccustomed to this kind of thing, in fact, I almost feel better when I'm running myself ragged between two jobs. (Masochist.)
But, I have been on the search for a second job for three weeks now, and not only is it proving incredibly difficult to find, but I've noticed a surprising change in Me in the process:
For the first time in my life, I am being picky. Job-wise. I am being picky job-wise. And very, for that matter.
I want to find a job that both affords my life (which isn't expensive by any means--rent, bills, coffee, Thai food...and plane tickets so that my boyfriend and I can sustain our 1100 mile-wide relationship...ok, so not necessarily cheap) but also affords me the flexibility so that I can do these things that I moved to the city to do: Audition & Act. Maybe I'm delusional, but I feel like this shouldn't be a ridiculous thing to ask. And I am steadfastly sticking to it. Why?...
For C) A story:
Last year, I got a job that I loved. A job at a cute, quirky, whimsical establishment that had a million other theatrical types working at it. It seemed perfect.
I got hired as a barista. Hooray!
I loved the people that I worked with. DOUBLE-Hooray!
I was getting a crap-load of hours. TRIPLE-Hooray!
...And then I stayed a barista. And watched as a bunch of other people were promoted around me. I missed serving, I wanted more money, and I was bummed...but it was something that I was willing to overlook (for the time being).
...And then I was still a barista. And I began to notice that not only was no one really trying to advance me, but they were locking me further and further into a 5-6 day-a-week schedule with no possible coverage for my position. But, I figured that these were all things that I'd deal with when I absolutely needed to and was, therefore, still willing to overlook. Less so, but still.
It was when I started heavily-auditioning for things and booking them and booking more of them...and getting a less than pleasant response from the higher-ups at this place that I knew that it was my time to go. Not their fault, certainly. But, the fact of the matter remained that I did not move to New York to become a barista.
I moved here to become a Starving Artist. Dammit.
And so this time around, I'm prioritizing a little differently. I'm not just looking out for a job that'll help me to get by, I'm taking Me into account first and foremost. (Blech, I know, I can hear the "lame" in that sentence, too, but it's true.) And I have to have hope that the right road by which to do all of this will reveal itself to me eventually. But, in the meantime, I'm just going to submit to my pickiness...and submit to Backstage, and PB & J, and exorbitant amounts of yoga.
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