The crowd in the super dome quiets. Anticipation hangs like a frothy cloud. Anything that happens next could send the fans to their feet hollering, cheering, and crying like all of their dreams are about to come true. The stage lights up and floods the darkness with red and bright streams of light. Dancers wait to crowd the stage with jiggling hips, tossed ringlets of hair, pelvic thrusts, beads, and sequins. They can’t bask in the light yet. After all, everyone has come to see me. The next set of lights fuels the hyped cheers to rise toward the night stars. It’s an outline of me in red lights. My silhouette follows the lights that fill the stage. I don’t move a muscle. I struggle to calm my excited breathing. I’m about to perform. I live for moments like this. The spotlight finally shines, and reveals that it’s me. I am hunched over a laptop vigorously typing…
I’m not the biggest Beyonce fan. I remember when I saw the video for “No, No, No.” I definitely wanted to head butt the television just to make it stop. And, good grief, those ridiculous outfits Destiny’s Child wore made me want to slap them back to Texas. On the East Coast we don’t wear foolishness like that. She should leave the gangsta posturing to her husband. A female hustla would never wear those vertical blind glasses. Inability to see through the vertical obstructions would hurt her hustle. On the other hand, with maturity she has grown as an artist. Her recent work is not so bad after hearing it for the millionth time. The woman can sing and dance her A double dollar signs off. Even if I don’t love her work, I’ve got to respect her work ethic.
With all of that stated, I don’t understand my recent internet stalking of Beyonce. I sat down to write a report for work and ended up looking at pictures of the Carter family on a yacht. Seriously? What’s the deal? Tracking celebrities is not even my style. After much thought I have come to the following conclusion: I admire Beyonce because she is doing exacly what she set out to do in life. She loves her job, even if it involves parading around in front of millions clad in lacy, S&M lingerie.
I have come to my own crossroads in life. I am slowly and diplomatically being fired from a job at a top paying company. Even as I use the company laptop to type this I am thinking about how much I hate my job. I have an advanced degree that cost me a jillion dollars (people with advanced degrees can make up words to exaggerate a point). I am a writer. I write all types of things all the time, even when no one is looking, even if no one ever reads what I write. I have been a writer since I could hold a pencil. Unfortunately, it just occurred to me (in the last five years) that I should somehow overlap Anna the writer with Anna the woman who works hard for a living. Going back to school for any major degree is not really an option for me. What would an MFA guarantee me anyway besides a whopping bill? Should I get another soul-sucking job at Top Company B? Do I scrawl, “Will write for food,” on a scrap of cardboard and sit on the curb waiting for my big break? How do I be more like Beyonce? Do I attempt to entertain a stadium full of people to pay the bills? How do I love, or at least tolerate, what I do without having to request welfare benefits from the government?