Your Revolution Will Not Happen Between These Sighs

I love a good call to arms in the morning. I've been so invested in this whole job-hunting thing that it's sometimes good to scrub out your soul.

Yesterday, instead of going to a job interview like I had planned, I ended up having mega-panic and sort of shutting down. This isn't so uncommon for an anxious gal, but it was demoralizing. After applying to jobs for months, I've only had a few interviews - a combined effect of reaching, just a little, of a tough old job market, and of only applying for jobs I actually, you know, want. All the job postings I've seen for cafeteria lunch lady or part-time bookkeeper have been noted, but not applied for, because I don't want to be a lunch lady or part-time bookkeeper. So getting an interview was sort of A Big Deal, and to blow it due to panic was a little lame.

Anyway, said the oyster, buck the hell up. It's a new day today, and a new day comes with a new, ass-kicking mindset. And there are brothers and sisters in the fight against bullshit. Sarah Jones's "Your Revolution," which I first heard all the way back in high school, is a nice manifesto (womanifesto?) about not putting up with crap. It's a take-off of Gil Scott-Heron's spoken word slam "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised," and both the original indictment of TV society, and her next-generation raised eyebrow at misogynist hip-hop culture, are great tools for howiztering a bad day.

It's my belief that everyone has their own tricks and shortcuts to busting a bad day. Some folks go for runs - getting those endorphins moving through the bloodstream is a great way to annihilate a lousy day. On the oppos a ite end of the spectrum, there are the people who get all Bukowski on us and drown their sorrows into numerous kegs of beer. As a woman who is trying to avoid the keg-like physique this technique often results in, I'm shying away from the alcoholic bad-mood buster...although some days demand a ginger beer and bourbon, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. In the category of "things I don't understand" are the folks who engage in what's known as "retail therapy;" shopping adds to my stress levels. My idea of hell is Kensington Market on a Saturday afternoon in the summer. Smells, people, and jostling? Gross. The last thing I want to do when I'm feeling fragile is head to Winners and look at flats.

I have this sweater that I call "the flu sweater," because it's the single most comforting article of clothing I own. It's blue, cashmere, holey like whoa, and so soft I wish I had jumpsuits made of the stuff. It's what I wear when I'm home and feeling like I need a hug. I also have this floor-length black skirt, which is flowy and sort of Angelina-ish, but when I put it on, I feel like a sneaky lady-ninja and I'm ready to kick some ass. Putting on the lady-ninja skirt and making breakfast is a powerful experience; wearing the flu sweater while I eat yogurt and bananas is a comfort moment. It's all about the headspace.

In any case, there's been precious little ass-kicking going on in my head lately. Cowed by the middling success at job hunting, I've gone on the defensive, curling myself around my psyche's soft belly in order to protect it. No more. Sometimes strength comes from the inside out - the indomitable feminist rant about where, exactly, the revolution might take place - and sometimes you need to put on your armour, lace up your running shoes, pour out a shot, and get back into the world with a smile and a fake-it-'til-you-make-it attitude that glosses over the nerves until its embedded in your core. See you at the revolution: I'll be wearing my ninja skirt and holding my resume.