There was, then there wasn't

There was a September day. There was a cafeteria; white walls, non-descript. There was a choir room packed with teachers, singers, troubadours. There were dresses; shades of purple, greens and blues, all with the shame of satin. There were friends, strangers and the anxiety of freshman year. There was Brandon.

There was a day in May. There was sun, warmth and holiday freedom. There were popsicles, talks of summer, driving too fast with the windows down. There was a pool, drive-thru lunches and too little sunscreen. There was music, laughter, innocence. There was a river. There were butterflies. There was a phone call. There wasn’t Brandon.

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I was too young to have mastered any sense of confidence, but I was in high school now, I had my friends that I had known for a few years and a brother that would watch over me and in the end, introduce me to his friends. So one evening I met Kristen at the school for the ‘open house’ choir event. Everyone had to go to mix and mingle and try on our future performance uniforms. Satin. Questionable stitching. Indeterminable lifespans. All around awful. After we chose the best fitting possibility, cringed and complained adequately, Kristen and I parked ourselves on a back wall and talked about what was to come as high school freshmen. The conversation was vague, but the introduction was not. My brother had picked up his choir tuxedo and met up with his band of familiar faces that were on the prowl for someone to throw their sarcastic wit at. They landed to the left of Kristen and I. Boys being boys, talking about sports, cars and girls. Someone uttered to my brother, ‘Heard you have a sister that’s a Freshman, better watch out.’  It was kindly pointed out that the now red-faced girl standing next to him was just that Freshman, just that sister. That was Brandon and that was me.

There were looks exchanged, football games and shared lunches. There were yellow lockers, empty hallways and homecoming dance invitations. There were white flowers, smiles and suit shopping. There were nights on dates, morning drives to nowhere, afternoon ice cream and school days skipped. There were bonfires, soft kisses and warmth in the winter. There were classic cars, new cars, hockey games and lacrosse practices. There were memories, smiles, shades of red, yellow, blue and love. There was youth, but there was fun.

I was too young to capture emotion in a bottle, too young to cast a net over my confidence, too young to latch on to the warmth of feeling beautiful.

Three years later it all came rushing back, but I was still too young. Too young to feel the sting of death. Too young to be not so close, but not so far. Too young to harden myself against the raw emotion this time and the following five years that brought a similar sadness to my feet eight times more.

But I was old enough to remember until today, this day. The emotion, the fun, the warmth, the confidence that a forever smiling young boy gave me for a short time when I was too young. It doesn’t take much: the words of the poem, a note from his parents, a photo of his family, a flutter of butterfly wings or a warm summer day. I was too young, but I am forever grateful that I was old enough to remember.

Rear View Mirror

I am nearing a very important day: my one year anniversary of working and living in Munich. I have started to look back at the past months to reflect on exactly what has progressed, changed, regressed and so on. I assume an anniversary is an appropriate time to reflect. There are particular things that dominate this look in the rear-view mirror, namely my battle struggle conquest adventure with learning the language and this little consulting gig I have gotten myself involved in. The former has been fodder for past blogs and social media rants, so I will leave that alone until the next major milestone or disaster. Job it is….so here is what I found….

We fade in on a girl that moved to Munich last April to join an internal consultancy for a major German engineering company. All that is intentionally vague to keep myself out of as many google search results as possible. I left behind the finance world, stopped over in Barcelona for some R&R and read a few books and then landed back in the corporate world here in Munich….for the weekends at least. It is a change, one that I enjoy immensely, but it is significantly different from what my time in New York City.

Many of my friends, nice colleagues and project clients ask me about my thoughts on consulting versus finance. Given the frequency of this question, I am locked and loaded with answers, but really there is not much to compare. Different worlds and for me VERY different experiences. The biggest difference is summed up in one little phrase: ‘Work life balance’. This is something that consulting firms use like toilet paper really. It is a covetable, never ending hunt for a true and healthy balance. Oh wait, the rest of the world has probably heard of this phrase….the finance circus in NYC never stood still long enough to get past the work part. Life was work and balance was more a skill you needed to sleep in places consultants wouldn’t dream of sleeping. I have not slept on, under or next to my desk so I suppose that is a step in the right direction. And when a colleague wears the same outfit two days in a row, it’s because he is European, not because he hasn’t been home from the office this week.

Now, now….that sounds a bit arrogant! Oh it so is and that is also a softened view on the matter – I have been out of the game for more than two years. And there is nothing about it that I miss, except the pulse, the rush, the vibrancy of New York City – still a tough topic to stop and think about.

So what I have found in my reflection is a new and profoundly useful skill set that has equipped me for tackling the challenges of daily life, but has also allowed me to broaden my small talk audience range. A transient life gives you these types of opportunities and I am soaking it up as much and as quickly as I can.

Currently, my consulting adventures have me traveling weekly to Berlin with occasional journeys to less ‘exotic’ German cities and even an occasional trip to the UK. Thanks to George Clooney and a little movie called ‘Up in the Air’, most can assume that I spend my days in the office, my nights in hotels and the time between traveling from one to the other. Largely accurate. Thanks to the movie, most might assume that I float effortlessly through airport security, throw back cocktails in the lounges during layovers and allow travel reward programs to dominate my travel planning. Not so much me, but I sure know some people who embody every word of this in excess. I have a lot room for improvement to become truly a lean traveler in airports. I don’t get to the airport early enough to need a lounge and I loathe the effort it takes to maximize reward programs.  What I have developed, is a new definition of community, a new set of portable hobbies and a skill set fitting of the lifestyle.

I am a guppy in the world of consulting….so here are a few behavioral patterns I have noted in my first year:

·         Coffee is omnipresent, but I carry makeup to cover-up that which three cups of coffee cannot fix.

·         I pass time on the treadmill making up stories about the luxurious, rest-filled lives of those I watch lounging in the spa while I run off the hotel room service.

·         If I had to plan a party, my guest list would include colleagues, flight attendants, hotel concierges and the breakfast lady at the Intercontinental.

·         I have very distinct requirements for hotels - I judge by the quality of hair dryers, access to ironing boards and supply/quality of hair conditioner.

·         The first thing I do when I walk into a room or office is to identify where the electric plugs are – anything less than 50% battery life gives a consultant anxiety.

·         I have checked into a hotel and subsequently checked out without every touching the bed and lack any scandalous story to show for it, but a rather nice slide deck instead.

·         I blow through my per diem not with extravagant dinners, but with grossly inflated prices for last minute, express dry cleaning of suits.

·         Multitasking means sending an email on my computer during a conference call on my mobile taken while checking in for my flight at the airport….seamlessly.

·         I can pack 4 pairs of shoes into a carry-on bag for a week long trip and justify each pairs use.

I have a hard time looking forward and thinking about where I will be in another year. If I start playing card games with rental car bonus cards, I am in trouble. I just hope I can do it all while speaking German!  

On addictions...

The mention of the word addiction alone brings to mind several associations ranging from dependency to craving and even the occasional thought to Roman law (I suppose I learned something in Latin class). Through our social circles and media we are inundated with stories of addiction (Intervention, Hoarders…or anything these days on A&E) and having recently rung in a New Year, there are countless promotions for countering addictions (Fancy a new gym membership?). All seemingly aimed at characterizing this word ‘addiction’ as something bad that you should stop, reverse, combat and so on…immediately.

But what about if you are the addiction?

Yes. Not the addict, but the apparent ‘drug equivalent’. What is the connotation of the word addiction in this case?

So this is the dilemma…..addiction. I was told the other day by someone that I am an addiction. And I am struggling with interpretation, or rather ‘perception’ to use a few choice buzzwords.

When I first processed the statement delivered via text message, my mind was drawn to a ‘Joe Camel’ advertisement off the side of Atlantic Boulevard in Jacksonville, Florida circa 1986. It was the billboard that my parents used to teach me about two bad things: smoking and addiction - I thought Joe was a ‘cool’ camel. Hats off to the advertising campaign.

Imagine my surprise when I (at least in my own head) am placed next to Joe Camel, the personification of one type of addiction. Of course, being a girl – and a staunch supporter of over-analysis at every opportunity – I indulged myself.

Was I a perennial bad habit that this person wanted to quit? Well, I had not known him long enough to be renounced in a New Years resolution.

If I was an addiction, which stage of addiction was he in? Analysis suggested that due to his relatively infrequent requests for face time, he would most likely be classified as a moderate or occasional addict.

Addictions co-present with risks or harm to the addict and his surrounding environments; so what are the risks and where am I causing harm? It pains me to think of myself as a bringer of harm.

The over-analysis continued….even more so when he said it a second time.

As curiosity and stress overtook me, I reached out to unknowing girlfriends and neutrally posed the question….a little like the cliché ‘I have a friend who has a particular problem…..’ Call it a straw poll of sorts. Overwhelmingly, my girlfriends – who never for a moment believed I was asking about a friend – told me I should be flattered by such a statement – surely it was meant with the best of intentions. They went on with rants about addictions and their unintentional starts (I suppose no one sets out to be an addict). They acknowledged that addicts question their own behaviors, but over time repeat it in order to fulfill some need and/or desire which is usually strong and consuming. Another friend chimed in with a comment about life long addictions that ‘afflict’ many people.

Hmmmm…..

I have taken it in, analyzed it all at least five or six more times (that is a grossly underreported number….call it self-preservation) and still struggle with finding upside. But if it is a case of long term addiction, there are probably two types of addictions that evolve at some point: one that becomes a matter of tolerance and acclimation characterized by the addict that continues out of mere habit. And the other that maintains the heightened level of satisfaction and desire for more, the type which took the addict through his experimental stage, carried him through his bout with occasional use and sustains him over the long term.

If a person is to be an addiction, I hope it’s a form of the latter.