The biggest stress I am currently facing is the next round of redundancies at Company X. We will know in 5 weeks if we have jobs or not. The lists have been submitted to the Swedish unions. Our fates are actually already decided, we simply hang out and wait for the swing of the Grim Reaper, who will be claiming 33% of my department (can you hear that? That scraping sound? That’s the sound of the vicious bastard sharpening his chainsaw. He has gone beyond scythes, my babies. He has moved into the 21st century!)
This does not bode well for me-I am an expat, a young chick (I am 29, the next oldest in my group is 37), and I have only been with Company X for 4 and a half years. Never mind that I gave my fucking sanity up for this company and have a great reputation for the last project I did. My line manager really likes me, and I hope he has a lot of say in this matter.
I don’t want to lose my job. Simple as that. Losing my job means total upheaval in all parts of my life-where I live, what I do, and my Partner Unit. There are over 10,000 people in telecom that have lost their jobs here in Stockholm. It doesn’t take a mystic to know that if I lose mine, I will have to look outside of Sweden for jobs. And I am just not ready to go back to the US. All my life, I have wanted to see the world. I finally got out, I finally am living my dream, and I am not yet ready to give that up.
I asked my Magic 8 Ball, that all-seeing all knowing prophet, if I will lose my job in November. It replied “It is certain.” My Best Friend asked his Magic 8 Ball the same question, and got “You may rely on it”.
Fucking Magic 8 Balls.
I had another bit of stress last night that was whipping me, so by the time boxing class rolled around at 6:00 pm I was in a real state. I met Best Friend at the gym, also in a real state. I shrugged on my tank top, sports bra, and shorts. I strode out to the boxing area, feeling very aggressive, very driven, and not just a little bit enraged.
And I beat the hell out of him.
I have gotten quite strong in the past few weeks of boxing, and quite quick, too. So when the instructor was screaming to us: “Jab, punch, upper cut, upper cut, hook, hook!” I was right along with him.
When I took the hooks, which is where you angle your body and twist, driving your arm sideways into the pad (picture two idiots in a bar fight. Idiot #1 reaches back, swings, and hits Idiot #2 in the jaw. That is, roughly, a hook). I am really good at these. And so it was my stress-possible loss of job, difficulties at home, problems in another matter (my “secret area” that not even my openness on this blog allows me to address)…all of it.
I was twisting, screaming, driving my fists into Best Friend like the Sound and the Fury (Faulkner, wherever you are-I hated your book). I felt my face twist up, I felt deep down at the roots of my hair the sensation of my anger and frustration welling up and pouring down me, like the sweat running down my back and between my breasts.
Swing! Smack! Swing! Smack! Swing! Smack! The hollow thud of my gloved fist on the pad only drove me on harder. Best Friend’s look of total shock was laudable, and it was safe to say that I was “whaling on him”. I felt all parts of my body driving and connecting me, and that one moment in time was all I had to try to make peace with the gods.
When the instructor told us to switch places, I stood back, and looked at Best Friend.
“What the hell happened to you today, H?” he asked. “Are you ok? You have never hit this hard before, ever. Something you want to talk about?”
I apologized for hitting him so hard and wiped the streams of sweat off my forehead. My arms were glistening, and I felt a tiny trickle of sweat go from my back down into the crack of my buttocks. The patch of tank top under my breasts was soaked, and I knew my face was fiery red. The class continued along that vein, though. I continued to abuse my boxing gloves and muscles, and Best Friend continued to egg me on, get me to work it out.
At the end, I left the class during the cool down. I didn’t want to cool down, that was only an opportunity to think. I went to the showers alone, which was a relief. Once under the hot, steady stream, soaping up with lavender soap and leaving it to ease itself down my body in foamy, scented tracks, the smell of ginger shampoo in my hair, I felt the salt on my face, and flicked my tongue out to taste it.
I don’t know if the salt was from my sweat or from the tears I had in the shower, but it didn’t matter. I had absolved myself. My anger had passed. And later as I laid down in bed to sleep, I felt the taught feeling of the muscles around my ribcage. The firmness of my upper arms. The flatness of my stomach. And I held on to that feeling, reminding myself that truth is in the details, and of the moment in time I had forgiven myself.
-H.
Dam H
you can even make sweating sound sexy.
When are you comming back to the USA again?
Posted by: Agamemnon at October 9, 2003 12:20 AM