The next evening I went to the pro shop. Bob, the man in charge, must have sensed my lack of enthusiasm. He gave me a pep talk on how addictive and exciting bowling would be for me. All I needed to do was throw the ball at the pins and make sure I followed through with my arm. Bob handed me a ball and I nearly dropped it on my foot. When I asked for a lighter model, he frowned and informed me that a bowling ball should be about ten percent of the bowler’s body weight. After a quick calculation, my eyes widened. I opted for the ten-pound ball instead.

  On my first night of bowling, I slipped into the building feeling like an imposter. The scent of fried food and old shoes immediately assaulted my senses. I saw ladies everywhere. Some were young enough to be my daughter and others old enough to be my mom. Each one took a turn hurling a ball down the lane. Pins crashed as strikes and spares were tallied. The game seemed simple enough. Perhaps bowling wouldn’t be as tough as I feared. I found my new teammates and pulled on a pair of bright white bowling shoes.

  My palms were damp when it came time for me to bowl. I picked up the ball and walked to the line. My back prickled with the sense that dozens of eyes were on me as I took aim, walked forward, and let the ball fly. It didn’t go anywhere near where I wanted it to go. In fact, the ball curved right into the gutter. Face flaming, I tried again. Another gutter ball.

  I sat down and my teammates flocked around me. Their bowling shirts made them look like brightly colored birds as each one gave me advice.

  “Don’t drop your shoulder.”

  “Focus on the arrows, not the pins.”

  “Hit the sweet spot.”

  I understood why they were eager to help me. My performance didn’t exactly contribute to the team total. I felt sure everyone in the place had pegged me as someone who didn’t belong. I wished I was back home in my comfy chair. If I quit now, surely it wouldn’t be hard to replace me with someone who could actually hit those stubborn pins.

  After the third game of the night, my only consolation was that at least my best score was higher than my age. I slumped in the seat and removed my shoes, wishing the bowling alley had a dark corner so I could slink off to hide. My teammates provided consoling pats on the back. Even women from other teams came by to chirp a few words of encouragement. They told me everyone starts somewhere, and if I kept at it my game would surely improve. In the face of such generosity it seemed small of me to announce that I’d rather call it a day. So I dusted off my bruised ego and went back the next week.

  And as it turns out, they were right. After a month I began to understand the best way to hold my arm and when to release the ball. On the night my score finally broke 100, it was high fives all around. I couldn’t stop smiling.

  It would never have occurred to me to join a bowling team if my friend hadn’t suggested it. The Tuesday Night Ladies League helped me step outside my circle of comfort and exchange a stale old routine for a vibrant new one. In the process I’ve gotten to know a wonderful group of women who comfort me when I have a bad game and cheer me on when I do well. Bowling is a night out with the girls. We talk and laugh and once in a while send a ball spinning down the alley. Though I’ll never be part of any pro tour, that’s okay. A few hours of bowling makes me feel much better than sitting at home.

  The next time an unlikely opportunity comes along, I won’t hesitate a minute. You see, my Wednesday nights could use a little excitement, too.

  ~Pat Wahler

  Moments of Clarity

  Being miserable is a habit; being happy is a habit; and the choice is yours.

  ~Tom Hopkins

  When I was twenty-two I realized I was on the fast track to nowhere. Life was a constant string of bar nights and alcohol-fueled parties funded by my part-time job as a grocery clerk. Pressure was building and since “bar star” wasn’t a legitimate career, I started to do some careful thinking about finding a real job and starting my life.

  Lots of kids have that one thing they want to be when they grow up, and mine was always a writer. I pictured myself signing books for lines of adoring readers, going on book tours all over the country, having a shelf full of books with my name on the cover.

  But everyone always told me the same thing: There’s no money in writing. Be realistic and get a real job. The writing will be a nice hobby on the side.

  So I wracked my brain, trying to think of a “real” job that I would enjoy.

  Maybe I could be an English teacher. Wait, that would mean I’d need to take courses in math, which was basically the bane of my existence. Could I open a bookstore? No. Bookstores were a dying breed, and not any more practical than being a writer. My ideas began to get wilder. I could move to Italy and breed dogs. Or ship myself off to sea and become a sailor.

  Again I felt that sense of aimlessness. There was nothing I wanted to do.

  One day my mother came back from the spa glowing with excitement. She’d talked to the esthetician doing her facial, who had raved about how much she loved her job. I did some research and discovered it would take ten months of school and then I could be out in the world and making money. There was no math involved, so how hard could it be?

  I signed up and put myself through ten months of beauty classes. Before the year was out, I hit the streets looking for work. In less than a week, I found the ideal job at a swanky spa complete with tinkling waterfalls, massaging footbaths and moisturizers with French names I couldn’t pronounce.

  I’d done it! I’d graduated from esthetics school with top grades and obtained the ultimate real job.

  There was only one problem. I hated it.

  I hated everything about it. From touching people’s smelly feet all day, to the eye-watering smell of nail polish, to the fussy rich ladies who made me feel that I couldn’t get anything right. I would drive to work every morning, stomach churning, feeling like I was about to throw up.

  But I couldn’t quit. This was a real job, damn it, and I’d paid a lot of money to learn this stuff.

  Over the next three years I tried other things — working for myself out of my basement suite, getting a job at a tiny hair salon where I waxed people’s legs in a cramped little back room. Often I would pause and stare at the sticky wax pot or the rows of colorful nail polish and think to myself, “What on earth am I doing here?”

  All could think about was how much I missed my writing. Between the salon and taking waxing clients in my basement, I had barely any time for it. I longed to sit down and write all the stories in my head.

  One morning my boss at the salon pulled me aside and said, “We have to talk.”

  What she said next shattered me. “I’m afraid I have to fire you.” I was devastated. Outraged. I’d never been fired before. How could she do that to me? I started to break down right there in the back room. My ex-boss gave me the world’s most awkward hug.

  Then she said the words that would change my life. “Maybe this isn’t what you’re supposed to be doing. I don’t think you’re happy here.”

  Lots of tears and self-pity followed, along with more chocolate than was either necessary or prudent. It wasn’t until later that I remembered her words, which along with my relentless urge to write again, were the only true moments of clarity I’d had in the last three years.

  Weeks later I opened my secondhand laptop and began writing my first real novel, resolving that this time I would get serious. No more putting writing on the back burner, no more pretending it was a hobby instead of an all-consuming, burning passion.

  I began querying literary agents, and it was like a fire had been stoked inside me. Rejections piled up, but I didn’t care. I was fiercely happy to be doing what I loved at last.

  Four years later I’ve had my successes and failures. Ups and downs. I’ve had a story accepted and then watched the magazine go under. I’ve jumped out of bed at five in the morning shrieking my head off when I got “the call” from a literary agent.

  I may not sell my first novel. I may end up in a drafty apartment eating ramen noodles and barely paying the rent. But I’m happy knowing that when those moments of clarity come, when I step back and ask myself, “What am I doing?”

  The answer is always the same: Exactly what I’m supposed to.

  ~Erin Latimer

  Moving to Hong Kong

  Take risks: if you win, you will be happy; if you lose, you will be wise.

  ~Author Unknown

  “I’m ready to change our lives,” I told my husband Dave. “We’ve only got a few years left till we both retire from teaching. Let’s do something exciting.”

  Our youngest son was a high school senior enrolled in a study abroad college program for the coming fall.

  “We could plan our own overseas adventure,” I suggested. “We’ve never traveled outside of North America.”

  I’d just had the two most challenging years of my career. My classes had been packed with nearly forty students, many with severe behavioral challenges. This was the first time in my life I hadn’t looked forward to going to work every morning. I knew Dave was a little disillusioned, too. He’d applied for an administrative position for which he was perfectly suited, but they’d hired someone younger.

  “We’re not too old for new jobs,” I said. “We’re talented and experienced.”

  The next month, I saw an advertisement posted by an international school in Hong Kong. “Should we apply?” I asked Dave.

  “Let’s go for it,” he said.

  I emailed our résumés. Around 2 A.M. we were jolted out of our sleep by the phone ringing.

  “I’m calling from Hong Kong,” said an administrative assistant. She’d forgotten about the time difference with Canada and wanted to know if we’d be prepared to do a phone interview with the school headmaster.

  We had a lengthy middle-of-the-night conversation right then. “We’d appreciate you signing contracts within two weeks,” the headmaster requested at the end of it.

  “I’m so excited I’ll never fall back to sleep,” I said to Dave. “We’ll be moving to one of the biggest cities in the world,” he said, “and I’ve heard it’s easy and cheap to travel to lots of places from Hong Kong.”

  “Will most people speak Mandarin or Cantonese?” I wondered. “Just think of the interesting new things we’ll get to teach. And our students and colleagues will come from so many different countries. Doesn’t it seem too good to be true?”

  It was. One month later, the SARS epidemic hit Hong Kong.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked Dave. “The news reports sound so scary and they’ve closed all the schools.”

  “I talked to our Hong Kong headmaster today,” he said. “Some teachers they hired for next year have broken their contracts. He hopes we won’t.”

  “But do you think we should?” I wondered. “Everyone keeps asking me if we still plan to go. My parents are worried.”

  “Mine are, too,” admitted Dave, “and someone at work today told me we were just plain stupid to go to Hong Kong in the middle of a deadly epidemic.”

  I was practical. “We really can’t turn back now. We’ve already rented out our house and resigned from our jobs here. We’ll just have to hope the schools in Hong Kong reopen in time.”

  We stuck to our plan. The SARS epidemic was over before we left Canada to live and work in Hong Kong. During our school holidays, we traveled to nearly fifty fascinating destinations. We grew to love the people and places of Hong Kong.

  When I’m asked about how the experience changed our lives I say, “We learned we could live happily in a small apartment with few possessions. We managed without a car, walked many miles, ate healthy Asian cuisine and got into terrific shape. Dave and I grew closer, because without our extended families nearby we had to depend on each other. Our children were able to visit several times and we had some great family adventures in Asia together. Teaching our hardworking and gifted Hong Kong students turned out to be the most rewarding professional experience of our careers.”

  We are retired and back home in Canada now. Our years in Hong Kong enriched our lives and expanded our horizons immeasurably.

  ~MaryLou Driedger

  Running Away to Join the Circus

  Damn everything but the circus.

  ~E.E. Cummings

  In March, when the weather is damp, chilly and unpleasant, I’m diagnosed with yet another respiratory infection. Despite the ache in my chest, the fatigue, the shortness of breath and the painful coughing fits, I’m thrilled, because it means that I don’t have to go to work.

  Perhaps this should be an epiphany for me. After all, when you’ve reached the point where incapacitating illness is preferable to your workplace, it’s probably a glaring sign that you need to find a new job. When it comes down to it, my work is more hazardous to me than my lung infection.

  On paper it should be a dream: I work evenings, I make a decent salary for the hours I put in, and I can take time off when I need to. However, in reality, it’s eating me alive. The work has a customer service component, and the patrons tend to be belligerent and rude. More taxing, though, are the majority of my co-workers, who engage in the sort of catty name-calling and bullying that most of us left behind in middle school, if we ever did it at all.

  I know that when my colleagues are ornery, it’s a reflection on their character, not mine, so I don’t give their remarks a second of my time. I ignore them and go about my assigned tasks. I don’t talk about my activities outside of work so they don’t have anything to mock. Still, spending every evening in an unpleasant environment takes its toll, and the negative energy drains the life out of me. Every night when I begin my two-mile walk to work I feel fine. By the time I reach my workplace, my head hurts and I’m nauseous. As I walk through the door, I’m tense and ready for combat. It’s toxic.

  However, I don’t resign. After all, the economy is unstable and people are struggling to find jobs. Under the circumstances, I feel it would be foolish to give up steady employment. In addition, if I were to quit, my awful colleagues would win. Win what? I don’t know, but I can’t help but feel that to leave would be to concede defeat.

  When my lung infection calms down a little, I return to work. I’m still sick and weak but I think I can handle it. I don’t even make it through a week. The supervisor doesn’t even ask how I am; she simply throws me into the busiest section with the most demanding clients. My colleagues sit in the corner and talk, since they don’t have patrons to handle.

  As I struggle along, it dawns on me that I’m overthinking things. I don’t want to be there. Why can’t I leave? Because it’s foolish? Because quitting has a negative connotation? What I’m currently enduring is bad too, isn’t it? When every moment is fraught with stress, I’m not in a healthy environment. I finally decide that the only thing holding me back is me. It’s hurting me more to stay than it would to leave.

  I call out sick again.

  I resolve that I need to find another job, so I start surfing through employment listings online. To my surprise, I find an ad for a touring human-only circus. They’re going to be in town for a few months and they need help. The work is basic and completely below my capabilities. I could have done it when I was in high school. I would love a chance to learn more about the circus arts, so I submit my résumé anyway. A few days later I score an interview and end up getting hired.

  I present my resignation to the toxic job, but the bosses at the head office don’t accept it. I’ve put it in writing, but after three weeks, they e-mail me to ask when I’m coming back to work. Two months later, they write to me again to ask if I’m ready to return from my leave of absence. I get suspiciously friendly e-mails from formerly hostile colleagues who wish me well and fish for information on my current whereabouts. I tune them out as much as I can.

  The pay at the circus is less than it was at my former job. The hours are longer; the work is more physically taxing. There are a few blistering summer days where we have to spray ourselves down with ice water to keep from passing out. The difference is that I’m in an environment where my bosses and colleagues are decent, so I’m neither tired nor drained when I clock out at the end of the day. It takes a while for this to sink in. For the first few weeks of work I’m jumpy, I’m tense, and I’m always looking over my shoulder. I’m reluctant to befriend my co-workers; for fear that they will turn on me later. Nonetheless, I begin to notice that I’m smiling and laughing at work. That my colleagues and I look out for each other. That when problems arise, we talk them through instead of slinging mud. I don’t mind eating lunch with them. When we get stuck on the train together on the way home, I’m happy about it. It makes me realize more than ever that the problems at my old job weren’t about me. I smile because I’m not there, and I wonder why I waited so long to leave.

  I don’t think of my old co-workers with bitterness any more. I realize that they’re going to be stuck in their web of petty cruelty for the foreseeable future, and I honestly feel sorry them. They’re dedicating all their time to being hateful. I, on the other hand, am devoting my energy to improving and enjoying my life.

  Lesson learned: on occasion, the best way to win a war is to leave the battlefield… and join the circus.

  ~Denise Reich

  Find Your Purpose

  What’s Your Story?

  Storytelling is a very old human skill that gives us an evolutionary advantage.

  ~Margaret Atwood

  When my daughter joined her brother at college the year I turned fifty, I was finally an empty nester. My husband and I had been working from home — he on investments and various business ventures, and I on investments and several corporate board memberships. So this should have been our time to scale back our workloads, travel, exercise, and enjoy ourselves.

  But no. Crazy us. We had learned earlier that year that Chicken Soup for the Soul was for sale by its founders, Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, and his ex-wife Patty Hansen. We loved the brand and thought that we could take the company to the next level, bringing the books back to their old level of popularity and relevance, and expanding into new areas where we could add value to people’s lives.