misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

A few months ago, during an autumn trip to the forests of northern Vermont, Adrian and I took a day trip to learn the art of fly-fishing. Standing thigh deep in the frigid waters of a fast-moving river, warmed by the northeastern sun at our backs, we learned why "fly" comes before "fishing". Knowing about flies is more important than knowing about fish. Fish are mindless feeders. They gaze up hungrily towards the surface of the river, sense the movement of a fly, and attack it. Flies, however ... Flies are much more complex. They move differently. Smell differently. Think differently. Master the fly, and you master the fish. Our guide, who looked like a weathered, retired Indiana Jones, had a one-hundred page book, stained with blood, river dirt, and water, each page containing twelve different species, with characteristics, of flies. One fish. Thousands of flies.

The fly we studied for hours before being allowed to actually cast was the caddisfly, a small, moth-like fly with a fluttering movement pattern. It bounces against the smooth surface of the water laying eggs, up and down, here and there, like a drunken, disoriented water fairy trying to escape from its own reflection. When you are near a river or stream during sunrise or sunset, and you see all that dust-like movement in the sunrays, chances are they are thousands of cadisflies laying their eggs, dying of exhaustion, or both. And that is the thing that made it sobering. The life cycle of a caddisfly is almost exactly a year, but almost all of that year is spent as larvae. Compared to the mayfly, caddis live forever. They get a few days after hatching. The mayfly aren't as lucky. They hatch in the morning, mate in the afternoon, lay eggs at sunset, and die. One day of glory, before the cycle begins again.

As I've observed before, life, for me exists in a similar cycle. Only my cycle goes in four years, not one day.

The life cycle begins in high school, of course. As dragonhair has aptly pointed out, you don't really have a useful brain before age 13, thus high school really marks the beginning of existence.

High school is essentially a four-year mini-life consisting of birth (freshman year), growth (sophomore and junior year), and death (senior year). In psychological terms, the cycle spins something like this: Freshman year, you are like a caddisfly recently born from the river waters, fluttering your wings in an awkward attempt to reach the shore, confused at the world around you. You walk around with a over-stuffed backpack, wide-eyed, nervously shuffling from class to class, awed at the size of the seniors, the beauty of the girls, and the difficulty of the classes. The following two years you spend adapting to your surroundings, looking for a mate, realizing the campus isn't as big as once thought, that seniors (the big fish) aren't really that intimidating, and if tackled properly, classes could actually be quite simple. Senior year, you begin the inevitable decline into sunset and metaphorical death. You begin to hate the people, the color of the river, the campus, the redundant experience. The ceaseless desire for change takes hold. It isn't just a choice. You require something new. Fuck off-campus passes, senior lawn, and food carts, you say. It is time for college! Fuck the willow trees, stupid trout, and algae, the caddisfly says. I'm ready for a lake!

One markfly down, thousands to go.

In college, you are reborn once more, and the cycle begins anew. The stakes are higher, the experiences more vibrant, but it follows the same path as high school. Freshman year is a wonderific (made-up word) exploration of alcohol, brain expansion, and Sega Genesis. By senior year of college, however, the second sunset of your life blazes its thick rays at you. Fuck red cups, midterms, and broken-down Hyundais, I said. It is time for the workplace!

Second markfly dies. A new one is born.

Once you enter the workplace, you experience the end of forced four-year cycle. There is no official "freshman" title. You won't be forced to leave your job after four years, like college (unless you're Jill, then you get five years). This, though, does not mean the cycle goes away. Far from it. It simply transfers to different settings. Four years in the dot-com brought me from fascination with computers and stock options to disgust with those same things. Four years in San Francisco brought me from wonder with the steep streets and gays dressed up like G.I Joe on the bus, to boredom with those very same things. Four years shopping at The Gap brought me from love of plaid to hatred of plaid. The four-year cycles intersected at various points, but the four-year cycle itself remaind constant.

In an attempt to break the cycle, four years ago I went to ad school. This would be the career change I needed. I would find love. I would find satisfaction. The four-year cycle would be broken. I was finding permanence at last.

Well, I am nearing the four-year point of my career change into advertising. And lo and behold. The wonder has been lost. The tedium has set in. The blithely ignorant dreams of an ever-fulfilling career have teetered over the edge of my mental cliff like Arnold Schwarzenegger escaping The Predator. I flail my arms wildly as I plummet towards the aqua blue Costa Rican lagoon below.

The only constant in the neverending cycle of cycles, the escape, the pinprick in a bellowing balloon, is change. Change is at your disposal at all times. When your larvae shell begins to box you in, you can emerge, stream towards the sun, shake the water from your sliced paper wings, and start a new cycle.

Tedium lives in routine. It is the unshaven hair of the beast, the remora, undersucking the giant belly of your life, slowing you down in the waters. And newness always becomes oldness in four years. That is your life-cycle. Then you must find change. Find a new freshman year. The freshman year of pianos, or a bar, or an apartment.

For the caddisfly, change is death. For humans, it is moving, or changing jobs, or getting hobbies. Until one day, you'll find you wake up and realize there are no more freshman years to find. You want a change from life itself. And there is only one more place to go. One last change. Change life to death, and start it all again. Both you and the caddisfly will always have that in common.

And that, my friends, is why you should never learn to fly-fish. Our tour guide on that warm day in the river was right: bugs will fuck with your head.