Call Me Floor Lamp

Every once in a while, I'll be doing something mundane. Watching television. Eating a sandwich. Staring at inanimate objects waiting for them to move so that I can finally have the proof that Beauty and Beast is based in reality. Showering. And, I'll stop. Very suddenly, and without warning. I stop everything I'm doing and think, What am I doing here? And, I mean that in more ways than one. What am I doing here: in Los Angeles, in this job, in the shower? And, what am I doing? Period.

I don't know. That's the best answer I can come up with on a consistent basis. I just. Don't. Know. My life is like the road trip between Tucson and Phoenix. I made that drive so often in the last three years that I stopped paying attention altogether. I leave my house in Tucson and two hours later, voila! I'm opening the garage in Phoenix. There is no inbetween. Those are the moments when you know you don't really exist.

This is why so many twentysomethings claim to be lost in their lives, in their minds. Whether they're unemployed or employed but just hoping for that next break, they're all living with me in the inbetween. At some point in the future, we'll all be sitting in glass-walled offices staring at our Oscars, waiting for them to move just a tiny bit so that we can finally have the proof that Beauty and the Beast is based in reality, and we'll think, How did we get here? All evidence of our struggles and youthful ambitions will be as hazy as the outdoor shopping center in Casa Grande.

And, perhaps that's what keeps me moving. The knowledge that this moment, the moment when I have so little to do at work that I've managed to complete a softball sized rubber band ball from scratch, will not matter ten years down the line. Or maybe five years. Or maybe less. One can only hope. Because right now, I don't exist. I am useless as a floor lamp on a nightless beach. And, I've accepted that.

The way I figure, as long as I'm here, I might as well enjoy myself. I work in the Universal Studios back lot. A place that, on my first entrance, was as magical as walking from regular Disneyland into the Toonville section of Disneyland. Magical. Just magical. Everything is more exaggerated and colorful. People ride around in obnoxiously loud, gas guzzling golf carts. There are celebrities. Somewhere. And, I get paid to sit around and do nothing. Or in this instance, right now, as I write this sentence, I'm being paid to write a blog about how little I do at work. And in life. I'm in a tornado of self-reflexiveness, and I can't get out. Help.

Whew. Out.

Life's not too bad, I guess. Not right now, at least, when I have my internship. It's the "after now" that worries me. The time when my supervisor will say, "All right, Katie, you can leave now." And I'll say, "Eh. That's okay. I think I'll stay." And she'll say, "No. Seriously. You need to leave." Then, as I stare into her eyes, trying to get that one built-up tear to exit my tear duct and stream down my cheek, a string quartet will appear and begin playing me off stage. And, I'll forget to thank Sarah and Monique for all the good times before I exit to the side stage. Then, I'll forget my award, and I'll run back on stage to claim it, only to realize that it's not a stage at all. It's a bungalow on the Universal back lot, housing a production company that I previously worked for. Emphasis on the previously. And, there is no award. Just the looming threat of unemployment. I'm stuck again but, this time, in a different tornado.

I will survive.

Somewhere, some strange woman is staring at the floor lamp that holds my subconscious, waiting for it to move, just slightly, so that she can finally prove that Katie Gault is based in reality.