The Comfort Zone
Task 33, August 16 to August 23
"Half the people in American are faking it". Robert Mitchum
There was a time when I thought nothing of taking risks. Nothing. I was Ethan Hawk, Lara Croft, Clutch Cargo!!! Life was a lark--I feared no adventure, no challenge, and never thought: "you know, I shouldn't light this M80 while I'm drinking a shot of Jaegermeister..."
I've ridden a camel in the shadow of the great Pyramid of Cheops, worked as a bouncer at the Whisky a Go Go, met Yves St. Laurent and confronted O.J Simpson.
It was quite normal for me to spend long weekends in Baja, bar hopping and dancing at discos where the security guards toted Uzis and the beers went for fifty cents and the tacos sold for a quarter.
I’ve drunk myself into a stupor and locked myself out of my room at the Barbizon Hotel in New York City. Naked. I hid under a freeway bridge during a tornado and endured a tour of Scientology Celebrity Center in Hollywood with Tom Cruise.
Oh, and I've met Ghoulardi. (Cleveland people will understand).
Adventures. Risks. Challenges met. But all of it was part of my past by the time I was 40.
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Since then, it's been donning dress shirts, commuting down the 405, laboring through sexual harassment training, driving to 6am soccer matches--two hours from home; cleaning up after barfing dogs, learning about adjustable rate mortgages, peeking at my 401K; I've attended funerals, replaced my knees, trick or treated with the neighbors, swiffered (both wet and dry) miles and miles of flooring, drank a bit of Hendricks and become a grandpa.
It's life, right? But I've noticed that this normalcy created a womb-like effect colloquially called a comfort zone, and that started to bother me, especially lately.
But what to do about it? I cannot repeat the bad behavior of my past--it isn't physically possible, nor do I have any desire to be on the receiving end of my wife's withering stare.
Then I read in our local town newsletter that there was an opening on our city's Art Council. The job: to help find artwork for public spaces. Simple. All you had to do was fill out an application then (my heart sunk) appear in front of the city council for an in-person interview at their next session.
No way. No me. A public interview? I got on the city web page and watched some previous interviews. There were spectators! You stand alone at a podium and you are asked questions by the council!!! What if my tongue tied or my titanium knees buckled or my hands shook? I'll look like a fool! NO WAY!!!
But I sent in the application. Why, because an application wasn't a contract. I didn't have to show up at the meeting.
But I did go to the council meeting.
They called my name and I stood up and walked to the podium and I cleared my throat and waited for the first question.
Now, I would like to say that I sailed through the process and now I'm on the Art Council but it would be a lie. I sweat and strained through my five minute interview and my hands shook and my answers were jumbled and my stomach roiled...and I didn't get enough votes so I was dismissed.
But as I walked to my car I let out a small but satisfying whoop. I survived. I, damn it, had stepped out of my comfort zone, challenged myself once more, and it felt good. Almost as good as being on a camel in the shadow of the great Pyramid of Cheops.
TASK:
This week you are going to step out of your comfort zone. Try Indian food. Rent an electric bike, shave off your mustache or shave your head. Go to a foreign film or take a yoga class; wake your ass up! Do something out of the ordinary! Carpe Diem, mother f---er.