What’s in it for me?

For someone whose life is a veritable mess, I’m actually quite organized. No, you won’t know that by looking at my apartment, which has crap everywhere due to lack of, oh, closets. (WTF was I thinking? Oh, right, the view…)

I wouldn’t necessarily say I have OCD, because doing anything more than once makes me want to fling myself off my sixth-floor balcony. But I do have lists … specificially, of what I want in the perfect soulmate, the perfect job and, yes, the perfect life.

Mostly I have the list in a “this or that” format. Do I want Cabernet or formula in my house? Scandalous skivvies or diapers? Scallops or burgers? Twelve-hundred threadcount sheets versus Tarzhay specials?

You get the idea. I’ve tried to frame my mindset for luxury.

So for all those worrying about me on the employment front, thank you for your prayers. I have come up with a plan for the next two months, maybe three. So, we will worry about that when the time comes. But for now, I’m gonna be OK.

(Thank you, God, and everyone who contacted Him!)

I had a blinding flash of the obvious this week. I realized I want to be wooed.

What girl doesn’t? I know, I know. But when you spend your life tap-dancing to impress interviewers and trying not to show your dates your “secret single behavior” (hat-tip to “Sex and the City”), at some point you have to wonder, “What’s in it for me?”

Don’t get me wrong. I know I have to perform once I’m hired (by someone providing a paycheck or pleasure). But I’ve walked away from too many events feeling, frankly, unfulfilled.

It’s like everybody’s getting off and never looking around to see whether you got yours, too. And it takes a whole lot more than a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, either intellectually or physically, to keep me engaged.

And I find myself absolutely SCREAMING inside, although I may calmly announce that it’s time to share the wealth. But really, once everyone else has gotten what they want out of you, what use are you to them … at least, until they need you again?

In any case, I’ve decided to reclaim my virginity. No, I’m not getting sewn up. (Lord, no.) But I’ve been giving it away for free for too long, vocationally or otherwise. Even if I didn’t speak up, I was quietly doing my part to make sure everyone had a stress-free bath with rose petals and candles, while my hands were pruned up from scrubbing the tub.

Now, I don’t want to get too selfish here, sitting on my high horse and waiting for the world to service me. But I do think it’s fair to claim my own space, set up boundaries that can’t be blown over by the slightest breeze, and not fake it (too much). Sure, there’s some amount of required theatrics involved in everything. But as we all know, once you start, there’s no stopping.

Anyhoodle, I’ve done my auditions. I got cast in the part I wanted. I don’t know whether I’ll hate it, love it, or feel completely indifferent toward it once we host the production. But I will tell you this, if I’m carrying the show, I simply won’t audition for the next part. If I find an ensemble cast I like better in 60 days, I’m going to sing my heart out for them and see what happens. And anyone who thinks they’ve got me because I happen to be standing right there, can either start studying up on how to keep me or else I’m out the door and on to the next conquest.

The “nice” part of me re-reads that last graf and wonders whether another cup of coffee will make me less grouchy. (It won’t, but I will try anyway!) But the rest of me goes all Charlie Sheen and says, “Bring it!”

In my own words, “Woo me, damn it!”

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