So, last Thursday evening, (as did most other evenings for the last two weeks,)  found me sitting behind the light board in my theatre, sliding faders and changing lights for another show.  In this instance, it was a Mary Chapin Carpenter concert, which was a pleasant change from the all-too-usual of blue grass and dance recitals.  (If I have to hear Singing in the Rain or Turn the Beat Around one more time, I think I may get violent.)

Anyway, I’m sitting there in my chair, changing up the look to fit Mary Chapin’s music and enjoying the show, and she said something that stuck to my brain like my thighs when it’s hot.  She was introducing a song called The Calling, and talking about how she feels that each one of us has a purpose or a calling that we’re here to fulfill.  She’s always felt like she was called to be a folk musician, and she has a friend that is called to go help…I forget, it was something like starving children learn how to raise goats in…Botswana, I don’t know, I was tired.

The first thing that popped into my mind was, “Oh, that’s a load of bullshit!”

I mean, of course the folk star thinks she’s called to be a folk star; the fulfillment of her purpose is fun and glamorous.  And the girl who goes to third world countries and helps the starving children?  Well, I imagine on some level she has to believe that she’s called to do what she does; otherwise, she’d probably go crazy sitting in a muddle puddle somewhere in Africa.  But what if it looks like your “purpose” wasn’t as great as rock star or missionary?  What about the guy who worked hard in a factory for 30 years?  Was his purpose to work in a factory, or did he just live his entire lifetime without fulfilling his purpose?  When I was dancing in high school and college I was passionate about dance, and was strongly driven to give everything I had to my dancing.  If asked, I would have told you that I felt that dance was my calling, my purpose in life.  And yet, here I am, with a great job that I love, but not dancing.  So did I abandon my purpose, or was dance never my calling?  Or, maybe purpose and calling are just ideas that we as humans have invented in order to feel better about our choices in life.

All throughout the rest of the show (which was really good) I couldn’t stop thinking about that idea of purpose and calling.  When I got home, I asked Kyle if he thought he had a purpose.  He said that he thought he did, in a sense.  Not some sort of mission from God, or anything, but something that was right for him.  I told him about my theories of purpose, and the internal monologue that had been going on in my head, and we talked about it.  He told me that he thinks that we each have something that we’re meant to do not because it’s a higher power’s plan, but because it’s what we possess the talent for, what we’re passionate about, and what would make us happy.  Maybe it’s not as grand as teaching starving children to fish, or whatever, but it’s what puts life in your eyes, drives you to move forward in life, and keeps you from becoming one of those hoarders on A&E, and that’s good enough.

The next day at work, (Johnny Winter/James Cotton concert,) I presented the question to one of my co-workers, a sound engineer in his early 30’s.  First he told me that being in the same window-less building for so long was clearly causing my sanity to slip and told me to go sit in the sunshine for a while. (Which, though totally true, was not helpful.)  But then he gave me his thoughts on the matter.  He suggested that regardless of what you believe your calling to be, it’s entire possible that one’s purpose or calling may change as we grow and evolve as human beings.  Which, once I thought about it, made sense.  At 17, with the skill sets and life experiences that I then possessed, maybe my life’s purpose was to dance my little overly-dramatic ass off.  But as I went out into the world, gained new knowledge and experiences and explored new skills and talents, maybe my purpose became something new.  Maybe dance was enough to fulfill my 17 year old self, but my 24 year old self needs something different, something more challenging.

My co-worker also suggested that one’s career and one’s purpose are not necessarily the same thing.  Remember my metaphorical man who worked in a factory for 30 years?  My co-worker said that maybe his purpose wasn’t necessarily to work in a factory, but to provide for his family so that he could be a good husband and father.  And maybe to that man, being a great father is even more fun and glamorous as touring the country as a folk musician.  (He also suggested that sometimes a hobby can be your calling, and suggested that I get one.  Only, you know, in nicer words.)

I’ve thought a lot about what both Kyle and my co-worker had said, and where I sit in my own life, and I realized that the reason that continue to love this job with its long hours and crappy pay and crippling stress is because it’s what I’m meant to do.  Sure, the hours blow, and sometimes the shows are boring, and I’m holding my job personally responsible for the fact that I can’t loose weight, but I guess it’s what I have to do.  After all, if I didn’t feel that I had to put light on stage, I wouldn’t.  I would go find another career path that pays better than laughably low, that doesn’t require that I work almost sixty hours over the last five days, that doesn’t result me in burning the pattern of a gobo into my palm (twice) because I forgot how hot it would be.  I would go work somewhere that lets me go home after eight hours, that doesn’t require physical strength, and where the fact that I’m a woman is not unique.  But I can’t do that, because this is what I enjoy, what makes me happy.  My job may drive me to contemplate tossing myself off the catwalk after a particularly brutal day, but it’s also the first job that I don’t spend my drive to work wishing I were going the opposite way.  (Unless we have a 7 or 8am call.  Then I’m totally eyeing the guardrails.)  It lets me express myself creatively, challenges me mentally, and pushes me to do things so far beyond my comfort zone that I’d have to transfer buses to get back in.

So I guess, when  you look at it, I do have a purpose.  Touché, Mary Chapin Carpenter, touché.

A recent (well, recent to me) phenomenon has been popping up here in New York, one I find very interesting.  I first noticed it at the food court, as Kyle and I were standing in front of a McDonald’s, contemplating lunch.  Three little numbers next to the price of a combo meal.  At first, I thought it was another price, maybe that of a super-sized meal, but then it dawned on me: it was the calorie count.  Further research discovered that this isn’t just a New York thing, but a national occurrence.  (And apparently New York City has been doing this for years.)  Within the latest health care reform bill was a provision requiring that restaurants with 20 or more locations nationwide post caloric information for all menu items on their menus.  And suddenly, it seemed like everywhere we ate was providing the calorie count.  (For an informative write-up of this provision that totally doesn’t talk over your head, see this article in the New England Journal of Medicine.)

I’m fascinated.  Turns out, while my basic assumptions about the food I was eating were correct, (cheeseburger = bad, salad = good,) there were some surprising realizations to be had.  A favorite lunch for busy work days is McDonald’s Southwest Salad with grilled chicken, which I was pleasantly surprised to discover was much lower in calories than I’d imagined, even with a moderate amount of dressing.  I was crushed, however, to find that two Taco Bell crunchy tacos and a Cheesy Gordita Crunch, Kyle and my’s favorite midnight snack, contains 75% of a day’s total calories.  (Worth mentioning: the calorie information provided on Taco Bell’s website differs drastically from that on third party websites.  And Taco Bell wasn’t the only restaurant guilty of creative number crunching.  For what it’s worth.)  And Five Guys, in all their yummy goodness, turned not to be quite as toxic as imagined.  Don’t get me wrong, a Little Cheeseburger and half a Regular French Fry is still almost 1,000 calories, but it’s much smaller than the number I’d imagined.

For all my fascination, I have a love-hate relationship with this new information.  On one hand, it’s great to see it when it confirms my good choices.  I can order Panara’s super yummy Strawberry Poppyseed & Chicken salad, confident that I’m taking in less than 300 calories.  And I can be proud of my regrettable-but-necessary decision to switch from Subway’s Spicy Italian sub to their Roast Beef sub, because I can see the difference it’s making.  It’s not just an arbitrary feeling of guilt; there are numbers to back my decisions.

On the other hand, it’s forced me to come to terms with some of the poor choices that I make.  Since living in the south, Kyle and I have an affinity for good bar-b-que.  We love to have dinner at Smokey Bones, starting with an appetizer of Sweet Potato Stix and completing the meal with delicious platter of St Louis style ribs, pulled pork, mashed potatoes and gravy, and steamed broccoli.  And sure, I knew it probably wasn’t the best meal for a person trying to skinny up, but I figured hey, nothing’s fried and I’m eating broccoli.  How bad could it be?  Well, last time we went, I did the math, and I discovered that it could be very, very bad.  Just my entrée alone was more than an entire day’s worth of calories, and when you add the appetizer you’re looking at almost 2,000 calories!  Not to mention the beer that clearly goes with it all.  I was absolutely floored to see  the damage I was doing to my body.  How many hours of exercising had I undone in the name of meat?  Next time, I think I’ll be ordering the grilled salmon.

There’s an ongoing debate as to the effectiveness of providing consumers with caloric information.  One extreme says that if people only knew the truth about the nutrition of the food they ate they would make better decisions, and the whole country would be healthier, man.  The other extreme says that people are going to eat what they want to eat, regardless of calorie count, and this is just another example of big-brother government trying to control our lives, ya dirty commie.  As an average consumer interested in nutrition, my truth lies somewhere in the middle.  I think having all this information has been a great thing.  Does it sway my decisions and make me eat healthier?  Sometimes.  Sometimes I make bad choices anyway.  But what it does do is force me to face my decisions and own them, and stop hiding behind my delusion.   If I’m going to gorge myself on red meat and gravy, indulge in a caramel sundae, or fulfill my munchies with things in crunchy taco shells, I’m going to do so knowing what the consequences will be when I step on the scale tomorrow morning.

Finally, the Saratoga Van Sandts are home!  And not just in the sense that we’re finally moved in to our new apartment, but in the sense that I finally feel like we’re really…home. There’s something about this place that just feels right, like it’s meant for us.

I think it’s that our life fits between these walls more naturally; both literally and figuratively.  It’s a larger apartment, to be sure, but it’s also a better fit for our way of life.  The living room/kitchen area, where we spend the majority of our time hanging out and cooking, is bright and airy.  The bedroom is warm and cozy, and has the comforting feeling of an attic, minus the must and dust.  Most importantly, we can’t hear anyone coughing from the other side of the walls.  It’s exactly right for cuddling in a fluffy bed with husband and kittens.  There’s a tiny little office for work, and a sunny porch balcony for grilling.  Kyle put up window boxes on the porch railing for me, and I planted flowers in them.  Oh, and there’s room for the beloved kegorator, which pairs nicely with grilling on the porch.

Is it perfect?  Fuck no!  There’s no pantry, the bathroom has not a single drawer in it, and there’s a leopard-print chaise lounge on our front porch.  It’s also a little more run-down than our last place; the iron porch railing is starting to show some rust, the carpet is frayed in a few spots, and I’m pretty sure they stole the bathroom lighting fixture from my grandmother’s bathroom, but that’s okay.  At this point in our life, most of our furnishings, from the couch we bought at the Salvation Army, to the rug Kyle salvaged from a dumpster, to our entertainment center that consists of two 2x4s across two old speakers, had a life previous to our ownership.  We don’t own crazy fancy things, nor are we ourselves crazy fancy, so the fact that our apartment shows some signs of being lived in is fine with us.

Imperfections aside, we really do love our new place, and not just for the place itself.  The way that we fit into this building just feels better.  In our old building, we could go months without seeing either of our neighbors; at the end of our first day of moving into the new place, we’d already met all of our new neighbors, all of who’ve been extremely kind.  There are smiles and pleasantries as we pass by, but no one constantly monitoring our comings and goings or leaving passive-aggressive notes by the front door.  We’re not viewed with suspicion as potential trouble, but with interest as potential friends, or at least someone you could live beside.  No one’s complained about noise because we’re watching a movie or threatened to call the cops on us because we’re running our dryer late at night or stolen the light bulb out of the porch light because they think we use it too much.  They’re just people living their lives as they do, who seem to be okay with us.  And believe it or not, being okay with us is all we ask.

So here I am, sitting on my porch balcony with my laptop and a drink and my thoughts.  The neighbor girl, with whom I’ve already shared a smile and a few quiet laughs with tonight, is sitting quietly on her own balcony, smoking a cigarette and talking to her cat.  Mila’s alternating between chasing bugs and having a stare-down with the neighbor’s cat.  And one of these cars that flies from behind the trees lining our yard will be Kyle’s, and he will join me with a beer of his own.     And we will be happy.

Because we’re home.

(Now if only we can get the fucking cats to stop peeing on things.)