On the edge of burnout, a delicate flower considers a forever hiatus.
When I left fashion school, my first internship was at a conglomerate sportswear company in Vancouver. The company was mid-corporate takeover. I’d never worked anywhere big enough to have a company song before—“I Gotta Feeling (Tonight’s Gonna Be a Good Night)” by the Black Eyed Peas blasted through the warehouse daily. I still get shivers when I hear it.
The job felt meaningless. I was part of the custom bicycle jersey division. I used to cry on the SkyTrain there in the morning, and again on the way home. But I saw the contract through. I never quit.
So when a friend sent me a meme this week, turns outthat burnout is an actual thing. It includes the following symptoms—a sense of failure and self-doubt, detachment, feeling alone, loss of motivation, cynical outlook, and decreased satisfaction. Check, check, check. Sigh.
Dragging myself to the finish line of this contract, I keep asking myself: where did I get the idea that endurance is a virtue?
Maybe it’s because I’m holding out for the dream. Maybe it’s my artistic fascination with melancholy. My dysfunctional family probably has something to do with it. Whatever the origin, I’m tired. And I’m starting to question my talent for twisting myself into a people-pleasing pretzel.
Now that this film job has rung me out like a dishrag, I wonder if I’ve finally learned my cosmic lesson.
It’s dawning on me that maybe I don’t have to grind myself down to a nub to be successful, worthy, or abundant.
Maybe I don’t have to keep deferring my creative expression or ignoring my actual needs.
Maybe this delicate, sensitive flower is going on hiatus—for the foreseeable future—doing the next thing that feels good. And then the next after that. And the next after that.
Field notes from an atmospheric river in Vancouver, circa January 2022.
It's winter in Vancouver. I'm driving up the Lougheed Highway with a parking ticket slicked to my windshield. The days are long and dark. I dragged out my Seasonal Affective Disorder lamp and sat under it like a lizard for the recommended 20 minutes a day; it does help a little.
Everyone, myself included, is walking around in a daze. I was at Micheal's art supply store this week; every mug and magnet seemed to be from some alternate universe—blah blah, living my best life, whoo hoo, etc. Micheal's CEO is a maniac.
Even the weather agrees; a shipping container crashed into the seawall this week in English Bay. Then I saw a video clip where patio furniture was flying through downtown.
It occurs to me to get my nails painted. After all, the nail salon is familiar, and nothing is required of me there. They make room for me in the bay of customers, and the technician clips my nails short. Then, she polishes them with a clear coat of Nail Envy, which promises to strengthen weak and damaged nails.
The woman next to me has chosen a soft, muted grey pink. It looks beautiful on her, so I say so, which leads to a conversation about beauty ideals, men and dating, mothers and limits. She has deep and soulful eyes that peek above her mask, her fake eyelashes gently askew.
Maybe she senses my sadness because she lists things that sound like they've come from a fortune cookie. I politely nod back in half-hearted agreement. But, unfortunately, I'm not quite there.
#covidblues #atmosphericriver #sunlamp #MichealsCEOisamaniac #flyingpatiofurniture #nailenvy #vancouverwinter
Field notes from a Netflix costume office on a Friday night, from sequins to soda water.
When I was a pre-teen, I was obsessed with the spreads in Cosmopolitan and Allure about office-working women. My favorite articles were always about taking your outfit from day to night—by adding dark lipstick and a pleather blazer.
Now that I’m actually working in an office, the schedule is grueling and the coffee is terrible. I’ve taken a costume contract on a horror mini-series about a strange girl who escapes a cult and goes to live with a wholesome family in Ohio. It’s like a reverse Kimmy Schmidt—with a lot more blood. But at least my 10,000 hours of researching psychopaths are finally being put to good use.
Sometimes I get impatient with destiny and long for what’s next. But there are still two more months left on the contract, so I’m trying spiritual tricks. Like: when in doubt, remember that where you are now is where you once hoped to be. And if you look around, things are actually kind of beautiful.
I have my own office, which I’ve plastered with movie posters in the hopes I’ll be mistaken for a Netflix executive. I sit in meetings where we dissect the minutiae of creative and logistical challenges. It’s demystifying filmmaking in a good way—seeing that it’s just a group of smart, experienced people figuring things out. A lot of them worked on MacGyver and 21 Jump Street, shows that I grew up on.
And there are racks of clothes everywhere: sequins and feathers, hats, boxes of shoes. Actors and actresses coming and going. A mini-fridge full of soda water. Girls hanging on desks, laughing and analyzing the meaning of a handbag, the weight of a fabric.
Then, before I know it, it’s Friday evening. So I put on my darkest lipstick and head off into the night.
#Daytonight #Netflix #BCfilm #womeninfilm #VladimirTretchikoff #Cosmo #Allure #devilinohio #21jumpstreet #filmoffice #filmmaking #spiritualtricks #workingwomen
