New York to Chicago, Older and Wiser
Tomorrow I will be 33. years old. This year my birthday is amazing in that I am actually delighted to celebrate it. First time for everything indeed.
The typical course of a Shannon birthday is marked by a murky sink into birthday pathos, morose brooding and other fun stuff like that. It's very glamorous and dramatic. Granted, I don't write suicidal poetry. Sylvia Plath and Virginia Wolf's examples keep my head out of the oven. But I do analyze the hell out of my life. The results fall into 2 categories: accomplishments and failures. I take stock of where I am compared to where I thought I'd be "by now." That's the part that salts the wound. By now. Ultimately I end up comparing myself to everyone I know, especially friends who are my age. Whoever taught me to compare and contrast inadvertently led me astray. Comparison has never served me well. And at 33, I have learned that I need not sit and writhe in isolation and misery (light with 2 sugars). No more showing up late to my own parties because I'm depressed.
My evaluation of self is a daily process, not an annual one. (Showering is still annual. My oily hair is sexy and I don't care what the health department says.) The yearly comparison to my comrades no longer takes place either. I am responsible for my own happiness. It's an inside job. Am I physically, emotionally and spiritually fit? Do I have several pairs of killer shoes? My answer to those questions has nothing to do with accomplishment or failure. If I'm nodding yes to any of those inquiries it's b/c I'm doing the work I need to do.
Steve Martin writes in Born Standing Up that his secret to success isn't formulaic. In the entertainment business, hard work doesn't necessarily produce results. To have success as an artist, whether you're an actor, writer, dancer, painter (or stand up comedian), be prepared to work your ass off. But magic time happens when talent and skill meets opportunity. Be ready to knock 'em dead when your number gets called. I'm funny and smart and they're s gifts that I'm lucky to know how to use.
I'm moving back to Chicago to do just that, to dedicate myself to my craft, to finally take comedy seriously without 9-5 interference. I've dumped the marketing career for the time being. With low overhead I can sustain myself on a PT job. (I'm not afraid to hook if I need to. It's served me well in the past. I'm good on my back and my knees, so I'm told.) The applicable adage in poker is "going all in." Well, I'm shoving all my chips into the center of the table. My therapist told me to shit or get off the pot. I'm shitting. $200 an hour, kids. I'm shitting.
Good lord, I've written a tome. Oops.
I just read this over to spell check it. I must think I'm Oprah. Or Bono. Or Marianne Williamson.
posted by Shannon E. Ennis at
Friday, January 18, 2008
The typical course of a Shannon birthday is marked by a murky sink into birthday pathos, morose brooding and other fun stuff like that. It's very glamorous and dramatic. Granted, I don't write suicidal poetry. Sylvia Plath and Virginia Wolf's examples keep my head out of the oven. But I do analyze the hell out of my life. The results fall into 2 categories: accomplishments and failures. I take stock of where I am compared to where I thought I'd be "by now." That's the part that salts the wound. By now. Ultimately I end up comparing myself to everyone I know, especially friends who are my age. Whoever taught me to compare and contrast inadvertently led me astray. Comparison has never served me well. And at 33, I have learned that I need not sit and writhe in isolation and misery (light with 2 sugars). No more showing up late to my own parties because I'm depressed.
My evaluation of self is a daily process, not an annual one. (Showering is still annual. My oily hair is sexy and I don't care what the health department says.) The yearly comparison to my comrades no longer takes place either. I am responsible for my own happiness. It's an inside job. Am I physically, emotionally and spiritually fit? Do I have several pairs of killer shoes? My answer to those questions has nothing to do with accomplishment or failure. If I'm nodding yes to any of those inquiries it's b/c I'm doing the work I need to do.
Steve Martin writes in Born Standing Up that his secret to success isn't formulaic. In the entertainment business, hard work doesn't necessarily produce results. To have success as an artist, whether you're an actor, writer, dancer, painter (or stand up comedian), be prepared to work your ass off. But magic time happens when talent and skill meets opportunity. Be ready to knock 'em dead when your number gets called. I'm funny and smart and they're s gifts that I'm lucky to know how to use.
I'm moving back to Chicago to do just that, to dedicate myself to my craft, to finally take comedy seriously without 9-5 interference. I've dumped the marketing career for the time being. With low overhead I can sustain myself on a PT job. (I'm not afraid to hook if I need to. It's served me well in the past. I'm good on my back and my knees, so I'm told.) The applicable adage in poker is "going all in." Well, I'm shoving all my chips into the center of the table. My therapist told me to shit or get off the pot. I'm shitting. $200 an hour, kids. I'm shitting.
Good lord, I've written a tome. Oops.
I just read this over to spell check it. I must think I'm Oprah. Or Bono. Or Marianne Williamson.
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