by Karyn Bosnak
Later that week I awoke with a sore throat and was worried that I was getting a cold. The last thing I needed was to be sick for my big day. So I swallowed echinacea and guzzled orange juice and went back to focusing on getting my show in order. I had chyrons to write (chyrons are words that you see at the bottom of the screen that move the story along—names of guests, etc.), tape pieces to edit, a script to write—there were a lot of loose ends that needed to be cleared up. The last thing I could take was a sick day.
While I could count on my AP Molly to help take care of things, I couldn’t say the same for my PA Mike. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the box, if you know what I mean. For example, last week I had asked him to get me some safety pins for the show, and about an hour later he came over to my desk empty-handed—except for a list.
“Karyn,” he said.
“Yes, Mike,” I replied, knowing that I was in for a big treat with whatever he had written on his notepad.
“I’ve done some research on the safety pins that you asked for, and I found out that they come in three sizes. They have small ones, which measure about three-fourths of an inch, medium ones, which measure about one and one-eighth inches, and large ones, which measure about one and a half inches.”
“Mike,” I said, “they’re safety pins. I don’t really care. I just need them to hold up someone’s Be-Dazzled outfit if it falls down.” I felt like I was talking to a two-year-old every time he asked me a question.
“So,” he asked after pausing for a moment, “which ones should I get?”
“Mike, I don’t really care,” I said with irritation. “Just get the medium ones.”
“About how many?” he asked.
“Just get a package, dude! This is not brain surgery! It’s safety pins!” I had a hard time being patient with Mike.
“There’s an art supply store down the street that I can go to to get some,” he said. “I called ahead and they have them in stock.”
“Mike, you can get them next door at the drugstore. There’s no need to go all the way to an art supply store,” I said.
Molly thought it was funny when I lost my patience with Mike, but it was impossible not to. Every simple task turned into a huge project with him. And with a script to write, and tapes to edit and all the other stuff that I had to do, I didn’t need to hear a “State of the Safety Pin Address.”
Before I knew it, the day of my show arrived. After having a morning meeting, my team and I headed over to the studio at CBS. If you’ve ever been in the CBS building, you know it’s like a big ole maze. And it’s enormous. If I got lost once that day, I got lost a hundred times. Molly too. And Mike—by the time the show started, Mike wasn’t allowed to leave the backstage area. To make matters worse, most shows that had been taped so far only had a few guests on them—maybe six or seven at the most. But my show today had twenty-four. So just keeping track of them all was a show in itself.
After a couple hours of preparation, script and chyron changes, the show finally began taping. I took my place on the side of the studio, and Mary stood next to me just like at Curtis Court. The show started off a bit slowly, which I wasn’t too thrilled about, but after a while it seemed to pick up. Some of the guests were good, and as I expected some of them were bad. By the end of the show, I thought it was just okay. Just okay isn’t the end of the world, but after all of the work that went into producing it, it wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for. I couldn’t help but feel disappointed.
After all the guests left the studio, I gathered up some of my stuff so I could go back to the office. On my way out, I saw Mary in the hallway. I was exhausted, I was still sick, and she could tell.
“Are you okay?” she asked, noticing the disappointed look on my face.
“No,” I said. Then I burst into tears. She walked over to me.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I don’t think my show was very good,” I said. “I think it sucked.”
“It didn’t suck, Karyn,” she said. “It was a big show. A lot went into it. It was good.”
“It sucked. I know it sucked. You can say it. It’s okay.” I was still crying. “I mean, I’m fine with the fact that it was bad. I can accept it.”
“You did a really great job. I know how you feel though. It’s just kind of like a release. You’ve been working on that damn show for a month! And now it’s finally over,” she said. It was.
“Yeah, thank God,” I said.
“Here’s five bucks,” she said, reaching into her pocket and handing me a five. “Go get a cup of coffee, relax, and regroup. And then get back up to your desk, because you have another show to start working on for next week, sister!” She started laughing. She was right. I did have another show in exactly one week. And another show exactly one week after that. It felt like my life was going sixty miles an hour at the moment, and there wasn’t an exit in sight for miles.
“Thank you, Mary,” I said. She was so nice. I didn’t want to disappoint her. With that, I left CBS and walked to get some coffee and gummi bears. And after a short break, I got back to work.
FOR THE REST OF THAT WEEK and the following week my life continued at the same pace. My social life had become completely nonexistent. Because of work, I was too busy to go away to Fire Island for my second weekend—another weekend for which I had already paid. The more I worked, the more I began to despise the job. I wanted to quit, but I couldn’t. I owed so much money to credit card companies—I didn’t even know how much at this point. I just completely shoved all my bills in my closet like they didn’t exist. And I was still a month behind in my rent. And even if I did catch up, I’d never be able to pay $1,950 a month without this job. I felt trapped, and essentially, I was—there was no one to blame but myself.
THE CEO OF YOUR OWN LIFE
By the beginning of August, I finally paid July’s rent and continued my life of work hell. By now I had completely stopped going to the gym and continued to eat horribly. And the cold I had still had not gone away. Now I even had bumps in the back of my throat.
The previous weekend, my dad had turned sixty, and there was a small surprise birthday party for him in Chicago. My work schedule was still crazy, but I managed to sneak home for one whole day. My sister and her husband were there too, and my friend Naomi even managed to come as well. I was so overtired that I got tears in my eyes when I saw them.
That day at the party, I tried to put on a happy face for my dad and pretend that my new job was great. But I was so stressed out and sad inside that it was difficult. My sister knew how unhappy I was, and so did Naomi. But my dad had no clue. As I watched him open presents, he looked at me and seemed so proud. As much as I wanted to quit my job, I didn’t want to let him down.
Later that day, Naomi let it slip out that she had just talked to Brad. Potentially Gay Brad. Brad who never called me back Brad. The one guy that I actually liked since moving to New York.
“Did he say anything about me?” I asked.
“Well, yeah,” she said. “I asked him what happened between you two, trying to make it sound casual so he wouldn’t think that I would run back and tell you,” she said.
“And,” I said.
“And he said that he stopped calling you because you worked too much,” she said.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked.
“No, that’s what he said,” she said.
I worked too much. Gosh, if he thought I was bad then, he should see me now. “Wow,” I said. I had just finished telling her how much I hated my job.
“I think you should quit your job,” she said.
“I can’t quit my job,” I said. As much as she was my best friend, I couldn’t tell her that I couldn’t quit my job because I owed butt-loads of money and was an entire month behind in my rent. I was embarrassed.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because I’m under contract,” I said. “If I break my contract and quit, I can’t go work at another television show.” It was true
.
That night after the party I flew back to New York. I cried on the plane the whole way home. I didn’t just cry because Brad stopped calling me. I cried because I always said I’d never become one of those people whose job is their whole life. I didn’t want to be one of those forty-year-old women who is successful but single and childless. I always thought that I wanted a career. But now that I had one, I wasn’t so sure anymore. This job was horrible. But because of my financial obligations, I was trapped.
THE NEXT MONDAY, instead of rushing off to work, I decided to call in and tell them I’d be late. I needed to go to the doctor. On my way there, I felt a sense of relief. I felt like I was playing hooky.
I arrived, and after a brief exam, I met the doctor in his office for my diagnosis. He sat down at his desk and I sat down in the chair across from him. I was ready to hear that I had developed an incurable disease from too much work.
“You are fine,” he said. “It’s not strep throat or anything. Just a cold.”
“Good,” I said. I was relieved.
“But, Karyn, if you’ve had it for weeks, then why did it take you so long to come and see me?”
“I’ve just been really busy at work, and it’s been hard for me to find the time,” I said.
“Well, working a lot is no excuse for you to neglect your health,” he said. He was right.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. Just then I started to tear up again. I was so embarrassed because there was no reason for me to cry. But lately I seemed to be crying at the drop of a hat.
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
“I’m just really stressed out. I’m not really that happy at my job,” I said.
“Well, get a new one,” he said.
“It’s not that easy,” I replied, surprised at his frankness. I wanted to scream “I can’t quit my job because I owe a gazillion dollars to credit card companies!” but I didn’t.
“You just don’t understand,” I said instead.
“What don’t I understand? If you hate your job, get a new one,” he said again. “To be honest, Karyn, you are fine and healthy. People come to see me every day who are dying. If the worst thing that’s wrong with you is that you have a bad job, well then, just get a new one,” he said unsympathetically.
I know my doctor had a point here, but I was too upset to realize it. And being a doctor he should have been a little sympathetic to my problems, considering I was having a complete breakdown right in front of his eyes.
“Excuse me?” I asked, shocked.
“Seriously, your problems aren’t that bad,” he replied. “You seem to be making a mountain out of a molehill. Just get a new job.”
“Sir, I’m not trying to be rude here, but people kill themselves over bad jobs, so don’t downplay my problem,” I said.
“Are you having thoughts of suicide, Karyn?” he asked, looking at me pathetically.
“No, sir, I’m not. But how dare you be so insensitive as I’m sitting in front of you having a breakdown. You’re my doctor.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” he said. “Do you want me to prescribe you anything to help deal with the stress?”
“No, I don’t,” I said as I rose to leave. “I’ll be fine.” I walked out of his office and paid the lady in the front. After walking out the front door and jumping into a cab, I vowed never to go back to that doctor again.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, as I was going over my next show with Alexandra, the supervising producer, she asked me if I was feeling better.
“Yeah,” I said. And then it happened again. I broke into tears.
“Oh no. Not another one,” she said.
“Huh?” I asked, confused.
“You’re the second producer to cry in my office today,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping the tears from my face.
“Don’t be sorry. I know how you feel. You are frustrated and tired. I feel the same way.”
I confided to Alexandra about how much I hated my job, and she just listened and listened. She seemed to understand where I was coming from. I told her what my doctor said and explained how irritated I was by his insensitivity.
“You know, Karyn, as sad as it was that he was so insensitive, he did have a point. This is just a job.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. But just like I didn’t tell my doctor, I also didn’t tell Alexandra why it was so difficult for me to just walk out the door.
“What you need to do is go home. You need to regroup,” she said. “You are a very good producer. You care a lot about what you do. The problem is that you might care too much. You need balance in your life.” She was right. I did care too much. But I only cared too much because I needed the job—more importantly the big paycheck that came along with the job—because I needed to pay off my bills.
“You need to have control over all the areas in your life. When you put everything you have into just one area, like your job, for example, then you jeopardize the rest of you. Your body breaks down, you break into tears for no reason—these are all signs that something is out of whack.” I kept listening.
“What you need to do is become the CEO of your own life. Pretend that ‘Karyn’ is a business, a company. There’s the personal department, there’s a love department, there’s a family department, and there’s a professional department. And know that if any of these areas are out of whack, then all the other areas won’t be able to function properly either, and the whole business will go under.”
She was right. I had been completely avoiding my credit card bills for the past month because I needed to concentrate on working so I could pay off those bills—which was why I was taking my job so seriously. And in taking my job so seriously, I’d started to ignore my health, my personal life—everything. I needed to gain control.
COMPANY OVERHAUL
Later that afternoon, I decided that I needed to confront my debt. I couldn’t avoid it forever. It wasn’t going to go anywhere. The first thing I needed to do was figure out exactly how much I owed. After checking the balance of every card and adding everything up, I realized that I owed over $25,000. In my mind I always thought it was around $17,000 or so, but I was way off. It was twenty-five thousand fucking dollars. Holy shit.
I heard about this thing called a debt counseling program from a girl I used to work with. She had a bunch of credit cards and told me how she enrolled in a program like this and said it was the best thing she ever did. The company canceled all of her cards, lowered all of her interest rates and consolidated all of her debt.
After poking around on the Internet for a while, I found the name of a company that seemed to be the same thing called CreditGUARD of America. On the top of their website it said, “Every 3 seconds another person falls behind on their bills.” I decided to call them up. As the phone rang, I felt nervous.
“CreditGUARD of America,” someone answered.
“Hi,” I said. “I think I want to enroll and I guess I need to talk to someone.” I didn’t know what exactly to say.
“Sure, no problem,” she said. “About how much money do you owe?”
“Um…around twenty-five thousand dollars,” I said. I felt so ashamed.
“Is it all credit card debt?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, embarrassed. I expected her to yell at me and tell me that I was an idiot. But she didn’t.
“Okay, how many cards do you have?” she asked calmly.
“Um, eight,” I answered.
“Are they all overdue?” she asked.
“All of them but two,” I said. I had just sent payments in to Jennifer Convertibles and Discover.
“You can only enroll the cards that are overdue,” she said. As much as I wanted to enroll all of them, I was still relieved. The one that worried me the most was American Express. As long as they took that one, then I’d be okay.
“Okay,” I said. “Wait, how does this work?”
“Well, if you choose to enroll in the program, you’ll give me all o
f the account numbers for the credit cards that you have that are overdue. Then, we will call the companies, close the accounts, and negotiate a lower interest rate for you. After that I will work with you to figure out how much you can afford to pay each month, and then once a month, we will debit your checking account for that amount and send the payments to the companies for you.”
“Does it look bad on my credit report?” I asked.
“It looks worse to constantly be late on your payments. We don’t report anything to credit reporting agencies, but the credit card companies of the cards that you enroll may say something like you enrolled in a debt management plan. That may turn off some people when they see it, but it obviously looks better than filing for bankruptcy.”
“Okay,” I said. “How do you make money?”
“We are a nonprofit organization,” she said.
“Really?” I asked, surprised.
“Really,” she said.
“Okay,” I said, “I’m in.”
For the rest of the afternoon, I filled out paperwork that she faxed me, and by the end of the day I was a member of CreditGUARD of America. On the fifteenth of every month, they would deduct $432 right out of my checking account and disperse the appropriate payments to my creditors.
In addition to canceling all of the cards, the woman on the phone was able to lower all of my interest rates. They lowered most of them to around 10 percent, and was there actually no interest rate on my American Express and Marshall Field’s bills. Really! Zero! She also told me that if any of my creditors called me in the next week looking for payment, all I had to do was give them her number. I felt so relieved! I was being the CEO of my own life! I was taking control!
THE NEXT THING I needed to take care of was my rent. And simply catching up wasn’t the best option here. I needed to move. $1,950 a month was a lot of money. Almost half of the money I took home was going toward my rent. I needed to find a cheaper place to live. Just then, my phone rang.
