My husband borrowed the book, The Hunger Games from his sister about two months ago. She gave rave reviews, and after seeing the preview of the movie when we went to see The Muppets, I suppose we were both a bit intrigued. I, however, thought it would be more likely that I see the movie first and maybe one day read the book. My husband, on the other hand, gratefully read the book his sister lent him, followed by the second and third in the series. I brushed it off a bit when he would try telling me about the book. I wasn't interested. I would see the movie and decide from there whether or not the book would be worth my while (being that books are usually better than the movies--if the movie were good, the book would be great).
The end of February also brought the end of the boundless life that was my dog. Living with my parents since I had married and moved out (about 5 years now), I was the one who brought him home, named him, trained him, rough-housed with him, and loved him since 2001. That's not to say that the rest of the family wasn't totally head over heels for him, too. My parents babied him. Let him take over the couch. Took him, sometimes, to holiday gatherings. I even had a few pictures taken with him on my wedding day.
It was a shock (more or less) when he passed. From what I heard of the story, he had tried to sneak some chips from the coffee table, only to find my dad's foot in his side, kicking him away. My mom, hearing the racket, shooed him outside for a while. Upon his return indoors, he proceeded to lay down in the living room, unmoving. To make a long, sad story short, they brought him to the animal hospital, where they found out that a cancerous tumor, most likely on his liver, had ruptured. There was little to no hope that he would have made it the car ride to the 24-hour animal emergency hospital about an hour away (and even more uncertainty about how he would handle surgery), so they let him go. The point I was getting to (no, I have not forgotten, I know sometimes I get off track) is that as a result of this, I reread The Art of Racing in the Rain. In something like a record 3 days. For me, that's fast. I also work and have two girls under 3, two dogs, a husband, and a house to tend to. It jumpstarted my yearning for more good books.
Finally, at my husband's urging, I began to read The Hunger Games. As per usual, it took a few chapters to really get into the book. And once I did, it was difficult to put it down. Within about a week, I flew through the rest of the series. I was afraid that the blood, guts, gore and suspense would hinder any hope for pleasant dreams at night, but I had to get through it. I became engulfed in my reading, staying up hours past the time I would normally hit the hay.
At one point, after I finished the second book, I considered waiting a week or so to begin the third. I relayed this to my husband one night when he asked me how I was enjoying the books--my consideration to put my reading on hold. He asked, "Is it because you have children now, that you can't imagine having to send them into the games? Picturing yourself in the book?" The thought hadn't crossed my mind. I know better than to believe anything like that could happen in our world (or do I?). But, no, it wasn't that. As I've gotten older and my search for myself has progressed, I have come to realize one major flaw in my genetic makeup: anxiety. It was present in junior high, when I'd get butterflies on the drive to school. It was there when I fell in love with my husband, just seeing him would fill my face with red. It is always there, whenever I am forced to confront any sort of "issue" that has been on my mind--the shaking in my voice, my mind, my entire body, as if at any second I will burst into tears, even if it isn't something sad. For some time I have considered consulting my doctor about it. But as I sit here now, I realize that it makes up who I am.
With the ending of the second book, I was too intrigued to let the third one sit on the shelf for much more than half the day. I dove in and finished it within 2 days. A funny thing happened, though, as I was working yesterday. I began comparing my life to the book. I am in no way a Katniss Everdeen. Mostly, I am pleasant. I think I like to think of myself as harder than I really am. Tough. As my defense, I use sarcasm. Dry humor. Dodge questions from people I don't really want to talk to. I can be mean, but rarely to someone's face. If I actually am, I suppose I don't realize it. So I guess in that way, I may be like Katniss. And, I suppose, I can be gullible and follow along with a plan to save the ones I really love. And yeah, I guess my biggest fight is the fight I have to find and save myself.
But as I swept the floor at work last night, I pictured it as part of a game. My boss, President Snow. My co-workers, the other pledges. Some allies, some enemies. And he puts us as odds against each other. Maybe my boss is a previous victor and mentor for the new girl at work, my biggest enemy. And they fight hard to try to get me to break. I've been falling apart at work for weeks now. And everyday I tell myself this is it, I can't do it anymore. But of course, bills have to be paid and I have to keep up my end. But yesterday, being my birthday (stupid me for not requesting the day off) and being stuck at work with my two biggest enemies, I'd had it. The new girl came in (mind you, she is still a cashier at the moment, NOT a shift manager), didn't even say hello, put her drawer in and slithered away to ask the boss what he wanted her to do. If I haven't mentioned this before, the unspoken (though known) way to do it is: when you come in, you ring and let the other person get up for a while. It's really just this air of superiority that she carries which drives me nuts. So many times last night, I thought of myself as Katniss Everdeen, tempted to pull an arrow from my shoulder and aim it straight for her heart. I found myself trying to think of ways to get her fired. I had confronted a co-worker with the question, How does one get fired? and, after some discussion, realized the only way we have seen people get fired is for stealing. I can't force someone to steal, so it would have to be set-up. And one offense wouldn't do it. It would take several wrongdoings. Which would have to be thought out carefully. And I'd probably need to enlist the efforts of at least two of my allies. Putting things in her purse? Leaving the office with only her and our cash drawers in there, only to come in to reconcile the drawer, finding it short. Perhaps drawing her in to some sort of harassment.
Of course, this is all just daydreaming on my part. Just like daydreaming about telling my boss to fuck off, that I quit. THAT day, however, I am determined to make happen sooner than later. As with most things, actually trying to get my co-worker fired will take too much effort and probably wouldn't even satisfy me in the longrun. The best I can hope for is finding something else....anything else, short of taking my clothes off, to make a living. For now. Because I obviously have hopes and dreams. My biggest battle is just not to get picked-off in the meantime, not let the actions (openly hostile and offensive or otherwise) of others to bring me down.
I suppose until the day comes that I can finally bid that place adieu (which, with the help of an angry facebook status update and an old friend, may be soon enough), I just have to put on my poker face; pretend that nothing bothers me and bust my ass until I get where I want.
I can be a girl on fire, too.
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