Not Now But Here
My fingers still smell of garlic and onions. My morning had started with chopping green peppers and cucumbers. There was NO immediate crisis to be tended to 40 minutes from waking up.
So what if some of the tip of my finger is scarred from here on out, just because I had an errant moment. It’s a mistake I won’t make again. PSA kids, when dealing with meat slicers, mind the gap.
Last week I received the email I knew was coming anyway:
By this point, it didn’t even sting. By this place, in time that no longer felt tight, I’d been chopping and peeling and smelling and living for two weeks. I originally had an idea of what my dream was. I was meant to help others who experienced violence. That was it, no other road plotted out. Sike,I ran the gamut of roles of being an interviewed pawn to be a residential assistant at Safe Haven, a homeless shelter for Veterans. They said they’d call in about four days.
I took stock after the interview at Victim’s Assistance, i.e. dream headquarters. I tried to remember how it went. The office was stiff, the staff there quiet and reserved, I walked down a hall with a couple figures raising an eyebrow in my direction. This was where I thought I was meant to end up in. The interview didn’t go well, I rambled, I didn’t show “me.” Weeks went by. Then the aforementioned email ended up in my inbox.
There was a ray though. I had jokingly applied to another place, in their kitchen/cafe. I had no intention of actually being considered. Apparently they liked my resume. Then I showed up for the interview. The contact was warm, she was vibrant and colorful. She boldly said, “So, you’re completely over qualified for this job…why are you here?”
I had nothing but honesty at this point. My $80,000 college education flashed across the foggy screen of my brain only a moment, sorry mom.
” I want to be part of something present, something I can go home and be happy about. I have found, that my days of past consist of going to work, then fantasizing about being home, being home so I can cook, so I can build some simple, little thing someone finds joy in. I like food, and also, I once made a Beef Wellington, as well as Hollandaise Sauce.
That was it. I accepted the position.
It’s been three weeks since that meeting. Another company emailed me as well, asking why I wanted to work for them, and “please fill out this questioner so we can decide if we should interview you for a $12-dollar-an-hour-job.”
I declined. I contemplated crying about not getting the Victim’s Assistance job, but well, there wasn’t enough time so that was that. Bye Felicia.
I’d call this right phase of existence, phase 3 of starting over again. Done, done doing what was expected of me at this age. I said out loud, to Manfriend’s objection, “Even if they offered the highly paid position of pretending to care about someone else’s trouble even though everyone working in the office can only be described as…SIGH…literally…SIGH, I’d say no.”
It’s been challenging, but I’ve found myself smiling even in the most stressful parts of my days with this work at the co-op. I’ve left some amazing clients, but I no longer served them as I should the past few weeks. I lost my passion and will for an industry that doesn’t subscribe to value. I realized I couldn’t offer my clients my best work, It’s ok that I left.
So, even though I almost cut the tip of my finger off on a meat slicer on Monday, I am here, I am grounded. I can return home to do as I want. I can write, I can do a load of laundry, I can make a VA appointment (more on that later).
I guess my whole point is, if you lose that THING, you think you’re meant to cage up…let it go, it needed to tiptoe around the puddles of now. It needed to surf along the turf of cliche sayings that hippies love, but conservatives dream of. There is no blueprint.
I mean to say…there’s a gray print, one you think you might follow, but kinda sorta slightly don’t think you want to do, but maybe might do.
There’s a space though, one you can fill with all the things you don’t think possible. There’s a blank slate of maybe’s of infinite numbers. Do you like that color? Seek it out, who saw it first? Where did it come from? Find that place.
Like that style of shirt cuff or tailored waist? Find where it came from. Like that crayon color or eraser swirled point, play it out.
What I mean to say, is there’s no meaning to what I say anymore. I’m still here. That means something.