This is a great article from the NY Times about career changes...... Published: June 5, 2009
IN more than a few circles — publishing, finance, automotive design — small talk at cocktail parties has shifted from real estate (too depressing) to the Plan B career (a fatalistic, yet somehow sunnier topic).
How about chocolatier? Organic farmer? Therapist?
Plan B typically offers less money and prestige than Plan A, but promises a more hands-on, stress-free and fulfilling existence.
That’s the fantasy anyway. After a few days spent test-driving a few new careers, however, I started to suspect that Plan B should really be called Plan G.
For grind.
It Won’t Hurt, Really
The economy had barely started to tank when hollow-eyed financial executives started talking about dropping out to take up a second career in the wellness field — acupuncture, massage, Reiki. It made sense that stressed-out professionals would want to spend their second act working toward a remedy, like asthma sufferers might volunteer for their local Clean Air Coalition.
I decided to try my hand at massage therapy. But, really, who wants to caress freckled strangers all day to a zither soundtrack? I decided to massage dogs instead. With them, back hair is a good thing. Also, I, as a complete amateur, thought they would be less likely to call the state health authorities.
Daniel Rubenstein, an owner of the Paw Stop, a dog-training and pet day care center in TriBeCa that offers pet-massage workshops, put me in touch with the resident therapist, Melissa Belkin, for a lesson. Ms. Belkin, 30 and tattooed, bounds up to you with the friendly enthusiasm of a border terrier. She trained at the Swedish Institute, which is interested only in humans, but has expanded her business to dogs in recent years. Massaging dogs, she said, involves unique challenges.
“With people, you don’t have to take them for a run for 20 minutes beforehand to settle them down,” she explained.
She led me downstairs, where a massage table sat covered in a white towel. My first client was a chocolate Labrador retriever, Boomer. As Bach wafted overhead and three tiny jasmine-scented aromatherapy candles flickered nearby, I laid hands on.
Or tried.
As I strained at Boomer’s collar and tried to pin his 60 muscular pounds to the towel with one hand, I tried some effleurage (stroking) techniques, down his spine, to the tip of the tail, as Ms. Belkin instructed. But Boomer would not respect me as a therapist. I knew massage therapists must deal with boundary issues — especially because their clients are half-clothed. But how often do their clients lick them on the lips during treatment? On second thought, don’t answer that.
My next client, J. J., made me feel like a mere bellman cadging for tips at the Delano Hotel in South Beach.
J. J. is a purebred Jack Russell.
J. J. is owned by Mariah Carey.
J. J. is working on his own TV pilot.
J. J. was going to be a challenge.
To J .J., the massage table was a stage, and he used it to perform. He spun, he bounded, he danced. He paused only long enough to cock his head in pose (you could almost hear him yelling, “Makeup!”).
I tried to calm him with series of petrissage (kneading) strokes on the scruff of the neck. To many dogs, this move is pure Vicodin. To J. J., it was Ritalin. I could barely tame him, even when I pulled out every dog masseuse’s secret weapon — a delicate, circular rubbing of the tips of his ears.
But J .J. was a model client next to Macy, a golden retriever. Macy was sweet, but New York had gotten to her. At Ms. Belkin’s urging, I tried tapotement (gentle tapping) on her chest to get her to settle in. She writhed like a marlin caught on a line, then scooted backward on the towel like a lobster. The session finally ended — with Macy in the corner of the room, her tail between her legs.
But the experience was not a total failure. I felt great. Multiple hours with my fingers in fur had resulted in some unexpected therapy, and I felt at peace, ready for a bone and a late afternoon nap.
Green, Bloody Acres
I knew I wasn’t cut out for country life within 30 minutes of arriving at Northwind Farms, a 197-acre poultry, pork and beef farm in picturesque Tivoli, N.Y., about two hours up the Hudson River by car.
On the way to feed the hogs early in the morning, I paused and circled back toward my rented Mini Cooper, Starbucks venti in hand. “Sun block,” I said, pointing to the sun breaking through the clouds, and reaching into the hatch to grab a tube of Aveeno SPF 55.
Richie Biezynski, who along with his wife, Jane, bailed out of Queens 30 years ago to farm this land, looked at me as if I had said I just needed a second to slip into my leotard.
I’m not alone in idealizing the rural life. It’s become common to the point of cliché for harried New Yorkers, Michael Pollan books in hand, to attempt their own “Green Acres” fantasy in this region. The lush landscape seems safely distant from city pressures, but is still dotted with enough antiques shops and stylish bistros so that they don’t feel like, well, hicks.
That vision ended for me 30 minutes into my new agrarian life, with my right hand buried up to the wrist in a still-warm chicken’s hind end.
Follow this link to read the rest:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/07/fashion/07planb.html?pagewanted=2&ref=style
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