There are things you hear your entire life; things you hear again and again. Some positive, some negative, some which seem one way and turn out differently in the end.
"You should be a foodblogger" says the sous chef where I'm working. We all have a laugh.
I've been bitter. I've been unsatisfied and bitter.
It's not been doing anyone any good.
But you already know that.
I've been angry. I've been waking up at 7 (that's like 4am for normal people) and taking the bus downtown--even wearing a skirt sometimes--I've been sitting under unflattering lights. I've been sucking on Xanax and meeting new people. I've been trying and trying and trying and still just not quite getting there.
I've been lying awake at night and obsessively folding things from papper. I've been weird and uncomfortable and desperately trying to explain myself to eye-rolling listeners.
I've been working as a copywriting intern in an advertising agency, and I've just learned I won't be hired permenantly. It's a blow to my ego, but I'm hoping to use it as a good thing.
I'm a writer. It's hard for me to communicate in the medium of the spoken word. I enjoy restaurant work because everything is black and white: the guest is happy or they aren't. Chef is mad or he isn't. Naturally there's drama and gossip everywhere, but in a restaurant things are so fast and full of adreneline that you tend to get everything out in one heated argument or yelling battle of wills and you might stomp around but by the end of the night after the beers and joints have been passed around you're all boys again. You'll hug before you go home and drunkenly tell each other how much you love each other and you don't mean it and we all know it's crazy incest abusive mother crap but it doesn't matter because it's all out in the open and it's a flash in the pan and then it's over.
In an office, there's protocal. let's leave everything all unsaid and just say that I have been working as a copywriting intern in the hopes of getting permenant employment but I won't be. In 2 weeks, I will be severly underemployed.
When I was first told on Friday (like I'm a crazy person?), naturally I had fits and panic attacks and a brief crying meltdown.
During one of those, I was actually a horrible enough of a cliche to be sitting in a dive bar crying into beer and tequila shots. Isn't that fabulous? So melodramatic, just like a real writer. I'm smitten with myself right now. I even got into a laughing, crying, hysterical fight with some drunk guy next to me.
Husband rolled his eyes as I recounted my failures in the decade since graduating college, ticking them off and crying while he made every effort to get a word in edgewise to finally crack and pound his fist on the bar and say "regret is stupid. You've learned things. So what if things aren't 100% the way you thought they'd be?" Husband continued his typical sanity while I signaled the bartender for more tequila.
He's right, of course. I shouldn't have regrets. Regrets are for people who aren't willing to enjoy the journey.
When there's something you can do, something you can do well, there has to be a way to make it work, right? I know I'm ridiculously naive and equally cynical at the same time, all the while continuing to be a cliche.
So what does this mean? I'm going to start writing about food again. The details are coming soon.