In last week's column, I made a brief mention of my second gig as a morning co-host at an adult contemporary radio station.
Well, my side hustle just became my side fizzle.
Last Tuesday, I was downsized, involuntarily terminated, unassigned, restructured, relieved of duties, dehired, decruited, discontinued, defunded, freed up for the future and career transitioned.
Fired.
Kind of like when Little Rock recently "dumped" Amazon, saying "It's not you, it's us."
Only this was not them. It was me.
I wasn't what they needed. I could banter, but I couldn't bring the bucks. My newspaper supervisors would not permit me to participate in commercial advertising, and the radio station needed someone who could generate that revenue. It surely didn't help matters that I had no desire to learn how to work the scary beast known as "The Board," which involved pressing all these buttons, possibly chipping a nail and doing math.
Ultimately, it's business. I get it. And to quote that painful Fergie song we played so often (one of the few things I won't miss): "Big Girls Don't Cry."
Still, I initially felt blindsided and brokenhearted. Though this right here is my first love, for the last 2.5 years, much of my life revolved around radio. And I wouldn't have had it any other way. I loved the job, the people, the laughter ... the paycheck. Still, it came with costs.
I rushed dinners and happy hours, and I left parties and events early or declined them altogether, so that I could be asleep by what I called my third-grader bedtime. This because the first of 50 alarms would sound at 3:30 a.m. (noooo! just a few more minutes!). I'd spend the next 1.5 hours pounding caffeine, getting ready for the long day (some days better than others -- there was the morning my fake eyelash glued to my arm), getting caught up on news and choking down breakfast in the car so I could be at the station at 5 a.m. and "on" from 5:30 to 9. And then it was on to the paper to begin my real workday. By 6 p.m. on most days, I was comatose, which was just as well, because it was time to shower, do show prep and go night-night again.
I lived for Fridays when I could nap after Job No. 2 without next-day sleep repercussions. But too often that nap went too long. I woke up feeling even more exhausted and canceled more than a few date nights. Weekends became consumed with chores and errands I couldn't manage during the week. It's at that point fun became work; I wasn't as eager to go out socially because I was so depleted from the week. I just wanted to be at home -- the one I was better positioned to buy but never had time to enjoy.
Now I'd been given those hours and my life back. And I honestly didn't know what to do either.
A week later, I still don't. But I'm enjoying figuring it out.
I can eat dinner at whatever hour suits me without fretting about the time. One evening last week, I didn't leave a relaxed restaurant meal until after 8:30 p.m. and it was such a luxury.
I go to bed when I'm tired. Lately that's about 10:30 p.m. Which feels so decadent and rebellious.
I still wake up too early, and Siri, whom I ask for the time, scolds me when I do: "It's 4:43 a.m. You woke me up, Jennifer." But she and I both drift back to dreamland, until maybe 6:30 or maybe 7. And I ease into my morning listening not to news or Fergie but inspiring sermons, feeling physically rested, emotionally peaceful and spiritually restored.
My eyelashes are on my eyes. My breakfast is on an actual plate. My world is getting back in order.
It's just like Fergie sings about in that song I never, ever, ever have to hear again.
It's personal, myself and I
We've got some straightenin' out to do
And I'm gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket
But I've got to get a move on with my life
It's time to be a big girl now
And big girls don't cry.
Email:
jchristman@arkansasonline.com
What's in a Dame is a weekly report from the woman 'hood.
Style on 11/07/2017