crying in the coworking space that is our lives

crud sweat and tears in the phone booth of my soul

I arrive at the coworking space sweating puddles in all the usual places - pits tummy what have you, but what’s this? A dark line snaking its way down my shoulder? That’s more sweat than normal. That’s a strange amount of sweat, the cause of which is maybe anxiety and maybe how my backpack is extra heavy today with cottage cheese (lunch) and a tiny adidas drawstring bag (full of sweaty clothes and wet towel from the gym that I’d just been at).

I make a cup of coffee and eat some cottage cheese and get ready for my call with

Erin Shetron

, a great pal and BAT core team member. We’d just decided to get the gang back together and today is our big brainstorm meeting. 

“Sorry I’m so sweaty,” I say.

“No worries,” Erin says, relieved.

I try explaining why I’m and realize there are people all around who can hear me. They don’t look up but they don’t need to because words are things you can hear and sweat is something you can feel. 

Luckily for us all, I’d planned for this and booked a phone booth mere minutes ago. You book these rooms online in a system that feels like it was made in 2014. There's a giant map of the space and there are the four little phone booths - 1,2,3,4. You click one and book it. At 1:58pm I'd booked a 2pm meeting in Room 4.

I then had to check in by checking several boxes that, had I had my druthers about me, I'da definitely asked my lawyer to review prior to checking but alas - time is money and I'm broke.

I get up from the cafe area with my coffee cup my water cup my backpack and the smaller adidas bag and waddle over to phone Booth Four only to find a guy who looks like a bizarro version of a bizarro version of me staring back at me and in his eyes I think I see recognition that his time is up but he just goes back to his alleged phone call leaving me standing there, sweaty, arms afullbo, waiting like a god damn dolt. 

I look up at him again with my eyes that live inside my sweaty ass skull.

Nothing.

Nothing? Fine. An eye for an eye, they say, so I walk right up to Booth Three and waltz my ass in. 

Here, in micro, the world's ills are on full display. If we cannot abide the simple What could I do besides usurp another's booth when mine was usurped before my very own thighs?

Speaking of thighs, I am sweating even more in Phone Booth Three because Phone Booth Three is hot. All the Booths are hot. I know this because I’ve gone from not sweaty to sweaty during prior calls in these Booths, but never have I entered one already sweaty. 

Erin and I flail around trying to address the elephant (R) in the room that is our USA who'd just won his second presidential race in 12 years. Nothing said can change anything but that's not really the reason why people say anything, is it?

We meander our way to the topic of Both Are True. It hasn’t felt great lately, I explain, and wonder if that’s because my ‘growth’ has been flat or people have been liking stuff less or what (plz I am not asking here for compliments or reassurances just sharing how my dumb as dirt mind works lately). 

We talk about the recs posts (3 links) and if they’re working.

It's useful but its not the real stuff.

Erin shares with love how it feels like there’s less of the old stuff, the dad stuff and vulnerable story stuff. She suggests it’s maybe because of that one random idiot who complained about there being too much ‘dad stuff’? 

“That stuff was so good though because it was you and your life and the funny and heart and insecurity all together,” she says.

I start to get a little emotional and I start to kind of get sad and I can feel the tears coming but they’re taking the scenic route. Makes sense given that the water delivery system of my body has gone all in on sweat and there’s really no one manning the cry station.

“What’s wrong? You seem like you got sad.” Erin says. 

I go, “yeah, I just” and it feels so stupid to say it, but it's true, so I say it, “I just really miss my friends.”

And then the tears come cuz Marcus from Sweat got the memo and now Erin is crying and we're both crying now and it doesn't feel great, but it also does and there is a man with a laptop outside of Booth Three and good god I’ve been discovered. 

I say very loudly, “oh are you?” and he nods yes and I give him a casual ‘life is great, why would you even ask if anything was wrong’ one sec finger and gather my things and try to get out of there. 

So with tears and sweat and two cups and two backpacks and my computer and Erin and the weight of the world I walk out and put my computer down on this giant box thing that you’d see a magician put someone into before sawing them in half. There’s a literal globe on top of that box that my computer hits out of its fancy ass holder thing and sends it rolling out onto the floor but I catch it, narrating all of this to Erin as I’m doing it. 

Booth Four is now open. A sign from the universe that maybe things will be okay, actually. I load it up with all my shit and try to remember why I’d gotten sad but it’s gone now. 

We talk more about how this year really has been a fucking doozer - a new child born unto this world, half my genes and fully my responsibility. A move across the country. A hurricane and flood that ravaged the place we’d just moved to, an election that sources across TV and media assured me was the most important in history. 

And through it all, a shift in how I perceived myself and this newsletter. Substack grew up a little bit and I decided I needed to also. I was a Professional Writer Person with a Popular Newsletter for whom writing was easy and profound realizations flowed like sweaty wine (biz idea? surely no one has tried this yet which means there’s GOTTA be something there). 

It wasn’t that I stopped being vulnerable or anything, or did I? Maybe I did, maybe I peaked last year and my writing will never be the same and oh sweet god there’s a woman staring at me outside of Phone Booth Four. 

I point and just mouth the words “you booked this?” and she nods yes and I grab my two cups, two bags one of which is full of sweaty clothes, a shirt full of sweat, heart on my sleeve, tears in on cheeks and walk out of there feeling lighter than I have in some time. 

I sit back down in the cafe area still narrating everything that’s going on to Erin. “What a cry for help all this is,” I say.

Because what is a good conversation if not a cry for help. What else are we here for? 

Lauren yesterday showed me a video of Brene Brown explaining the difference between sympathy and empathy. In it, BB says, "One of the things we do sometimes in the face of very difficult conversations is we try to make things better. If I share something with you that's very difficult, I'd rather you say, "I don't even know what to say. I'm just so glad you told me." Because the truth is, rarely can a response make something better. What makes something better is connection."

May we all cry for more help, more connection, and whatever else makes us feel a little less alone EXCEPT not exiting a Phone Booth after the time you have it booked that was bullshit and I’ll never forget. 

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Comments

I always feel weird being this mopey but a friend recently told me they didn’t mind so maybe its okay. Maybe it’s all okay. What do you all think?

Are you ready for the holidays?

Are you ready for the rest of today?

What’s one good thing that made you smile lately idk