Life on the Outside

In the old time prison movies, there's always a guy who's a lifer. He's been in Cell Block C for 30-nigh years and knows no other life. Usually he's named Buck, or Red or Lucky. He's got a pet roach, a private library and is a wiz at whittling. Then, suddenly, magically, the parole board springs him. He doesn't know how to survive on the outside. He stumbles, resists temptation, and, ultimately, goes back to prison.

I'm still trying to function in the outside world. It really is another world. Those of you who have made the leap know what I'm talking about. Gone are the donuts in the lunch room, meetings about meaningless things, turf wars and coffee cup carrying veeps. Gone are regular paychecks, the nine-to-five desks and gray fabric walls. In their place are morning walks with the wild beasts, customers that don't return phone calls, and mid-afternoon meltdowns.

Mid-afternoon meltdowns? Yes. Even an aspiring superhero has a hard time staying happy and perky every day. Sometimes she has a bad day. Like when a client turns down a big proposal, no one returns phone calls, or she realizes she has a long way to go building her skills. Some days she feels like such a loser, a fake, a fraud. Some days she just wants to drive to the grocery store, buy a cake, and eat it all by herself, alone, in her bed. Some days she actually does.

Then, like hangovers follow tequila shots, a bright light shines upon her. The next day she wakes up to new emails and phone calls, meetings and fresh compliments. Some days she gets emails like these:

"I have been hearing about you. Somebody was commenting that they need to hire you as a sales person because the people they had on staff were not nearly as tenacious as you were in getting an appointment."

And, poof!, that seems to make it all better. But damn, that cake was good.