Write About Something You’ve Dreaded
Mike - Fuller Brush
I have always hated selling. In junior high school, to earn extra money, I would go out several nights a month, subbing. This involved being dropped off at large apartment complexes and canvassing the area to sell subscriptions to the Register – Orange County’s ultra conservative newspaper. As I hesitated at each door before knocking or ringing the bell to deliver my prepared sales pitch, I would feel my stomach roil to the verge of nausea.
Nevertheless, when I lost my job teaching at the Roston Montessori School in El Modena, California [a story in itself], I took a job with the Fuller Brush Company. I knew that I wasn’t Willy Loman, but it was the first job to come along and, with my son Pat only a year old and the rent to pay, I convinced myself that I could handle it. There are few things about which I have been more wrong.
Fuller Brush was the quintessential 1950’s institution. Salesmen with brief cases that served as portable haberdasheries went from door to door in the burgeoning post-war suburbs to convince housewives that the products Fuller Brush offered were essential to the quality of their lives. I received a brief training on promoting the virtues of the company’s offerings and was turned loose among the intertwining cul-de-sacs. If I stretch the truth a bit, I can say that I lasted one day.
It was not just deja vu of my middle school years that hindered me. It was that I could not convince people to buy what I did not believe in myself. I would knock on the door. The women would open and listen politely, then proceed to explain that they already had what I was showing them or that they did not need it – and they were right. Some time during the early afternoon of the first day, I sat down on the curb and faced the facts – I had neither the fortitude nor the powers of persuasion to convince people to buy what they neither wanted nor needed.
Shortly thereafter I snagged a job as a dishwasher at Big Bernies, a Jewish deli- restaurant in Garden Grove. I bussed tables when needed and washed dishes in the back room from which I could hear the lively hum of the goings on. It was a much better fit – and a more useful skill. I still wash dishes every day, but I will never attempt to sell anything again.
Maya - The Leaving
Waking up to a view of the Acropolis shouldn’t fill me with dread. In fact, for the past twelve days, the sight of ruins greeting me each morning has filled me with anticipation. Each day another opportunity to explore, to discover, to leave behind the rules and schedules and responsibilities of ordinary life, to escape the distinctly formed version of me that everyone, including myself, holds me to. Here, in the hustle and bustle of Athens, in the sweeping sunsets of Santorini, in the rugged terrain of Crete, I can get lost. Not literally, though that’s bound to happen to. Here, where nobody but my three traveling companions know me, I can slough off the constrictive clothing that looks like a self that I no longer recognize, and I can be whoever I chose.
But this morning, as I emerge from my bed at the Herodion Hotel and gaze out at the city’s ancient landmarks, the awe I feel at being here is tainted by the unwelcome knowledge that by this time tomorrow I’ll be slipping back into the trappings of ‘everyday me’. It’s a tease that our flight leaves at nearly midnight tonight, offering me hours still to wander these ancient streets with their modern developments, to climb the city’s hills and look down onto the ruins, to enjoy one last Dakos salad and Mythos beer for lunch. And just as I begin to allow myself that sense of freedom, of escape, that has brought me back to life during this trip, we’ll climb into our airport transfer and muddle through the security lines in hopes of not getting pulled aside for an extra search. We’ll eat dinner in our terminal at Athens International as I desperately try to slow down time, savoring even the airport food because it means I’m still here. Finally, they’ll call our boarding group and I’ll get my ticket scanned with the usual anxiety that something will be wrong with it - ironic, I know, given me feelings about flying back home. We’ll find our seats and shove our bags into overhead compartments and under seats, crunching ourselves into the “roomier” Preferred Status seats. As the plane lifts off the ground and I feel the clunk of the wheels pulling up into the belly of the plane, I’ll allow myself one last look at Athens as it disappears out the window. Then, I’ll close my eyes and wipe the leaving from my mind, and in my head, I’ll be in Barcelona where, three months from now, I’ll be able to emerge again.
Melissa - Paw Prints
A mundane cue that I am a fully formed adult lies in my ability to conquer tasks. I have nearly mastered the art of keeping my “to do’s” on a tidy assembly line riding my mental conveyor belt.
It would shock many that I know to learn that I could be pretty filthy as a child. I did not wash my clothes and put them away by style and color as I do today. Instead, my wardrobe operated out of a questionable clothes berm. Dirty, clean, and often raided from the closets of friends and family, they were all discarded in the pile extending from my closet floor.
It could be maturity, marriage or children, but I’ve managed to adapt to another extreme. Clutter, messy piles and paw prints on wood floors make me irritable. Cleaning and organizing my spaces now soothes and calms me. It settles my messy mind and scattered stream of consciousness. My thoughts are happiest when surrounded by clean lines and fresh energy.
There is an exception. There is one chore that I put off, outsource to my husband or ignore all together. The thought of cleaning the walk-in shower makes me regress. I love taking long, hot showers and the thought of steaming in my own filth isn’t one that I like to entertain. Yet, every week, I struggle to check this task off of the list.
Perhaps, the issue, in part, is the shower itself. When we moved into our house 5 years ago, it revolted me. Poorly constructed out of cheap materials, my shower was dated and well past its prime. I was certain that we would replace it within a year. When it was clear that a shower renovation was indefinitely postponed, I tried to freshen it up on my own. For a week I scrubbed, primed, sealed off and evacuated the tiny “master” bath. I carefully removed the caulk and sprayed on a toxic coating to bury the stained, grimey, tiles and my disdain for this dingy shower stall. When I had finished, the shower looked better, but the walls were rough in places and the new caulking looked as amateurish as the installer.
When I do tackle the shower, I am faced with the impossible task of making it look clean and fresh. Instead, the cleaning rag sticks to the rough surfaces leaving little pieces of microfiber behind. The caulk, knowing it’s innate limitations, volunteers to be removed from the scene. The “white” tiles have become stained for a second time, and the shower door is in a permanent fogged sheen. The refusal of this shower to fall into line with the rest of my organized home is infuriating. It keeps rebelling, it refuses to concede. When “clean the shower” circles around my conveyor “to-do’ it feels more like a questionable piece of luggage left at baggage claim. I see it circling, no one else is picking it up or claiming it. It goes round and around until I no longer even consider it.
I cleaned my shower today. I thought that maybe getting into action would make me realize that scrubbing between each tile was not so bad after all. It left me agitated. I cleaned it. It still looks dirty. I know that after I shower today, one of the dogs will pry the door open to lick the water from the shower stall, leaving dirty paw prints behind.
Amelia - Finals
After winter break ends, we’ll be thrown back into the cycle of life’s demands again. That statement seems dramatic, considering we don’t even have to physically go to school, but knowing that there’s always something to do isn’t a particularly pleasant feeling. The end of the semester is approaching, which means that finals will start in about four weeks. This is never a time that people typically enjoy, but it seems especially dreadful this year. Some positives are that this year, I’ll have more free time to prepare, and tests won’t be as long, since class periods probably won’t be extended to an hour and twenty minutes like they usually are. However, I’m so close to being done with school, and this is only the second to last time taking finals, not the last, which doesn’t inspire the same motivation. Even though there’s really not much else going on, it seems wrong to have to push yourself so hard, since stress levels are at their normal heights, but there’s nowhere for us to go, so you wind up staying home and bearing the full weight. You’re still stressed, but this time, you’re also trapped. It doesn’t seem right to compel students to spend so much time thinking about grades, when they don’t have an outlet to dilute their worries.
Aside from my general discontent with the idea of it all, I just stubbornly don’t want to be forced to work. I don’t see myself as a lazy person, but I’ve been through this process six times already, and it’s not the type of thing that gets easier with each repetition. Universities have already received my grades, and I’ve already applied, but the idea that I’m done isn’t fully accurate. I expect this to be somewhat easier in college since it is a new place away from the old routines, and the change will provide motivation to succeed as well as an easier way to remember why I’m studying. This year, I’ve had more time to spend away from school responsibilities, so hyperfocusing for a week seems unpleasant and somewhat daunting. I know it won’t be so bad, and I realistically won’t be studying for hours on end, partly because it isn’t necessary. I am a little worried about my calculus grade since it will be closing soon, and my effort in statistics has definitely dropped, but hopefully after break, I’ll have more energy. After the semester ends though, another one will start. The second always feels much longer since those early months drag on, and we have little time off. It may be difficult to finish, but I really don’t have much of a choice.
