I just almost quit my job.
I just almost walked right up to my manager and said,
"I can't take this anymore. I'm done,"
And walked out.
Instead, of course, I burst into tears
Run and tell someone to watch my section of tables
while I go upstairs to freshen up.
So... I'm still a waitress.
Despite the jerk-off customers
making comments about my ass,
the old ladies who skip out on the bill,
and the bitchy co-workers.
I still work here.
But one day,
and I say this with such affirmation it's frightening,
I will be the one calling the shots in my own life and
I will take orders from NO ONE!!!
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Job Searching
I’m still waiting tables. I’m wondering how long ago it was that I decided I wanted to work somewhere else. Two months? Three? The discontentment I have with my job and this job-search has had a direct affect on the way my body looks and the how I view myself.
“So what are the limitations with your visa?”
“I can work part-time while attending classes and full-time when on breaks.”
“Oh, I see. This is a full-time job and we would really need someone here everyday. That seems like it would be a problem for you… Sorry, we’ll keep your resume on file.”
“That’s okay. Thank you for your time.”
Immediately after this conversation, I felt like opening the fridge and eating whatever was available.
Is this why I don’t write anymore? Is this why I don’t care enough to work out? I lie to myself: Tomorrow I’ll wake up early and do Pilates before breakfast. I’ll go for a jog in the evening when it cools off outside, knowing good and well that my running shoes and Pilates mat will continue to collect dust at the back of the closet.
Why can’t it be the other way around? Food offers no comfort at the end of the last swallow; I just look in the mirror and feel worse. Why can’t my frustration manifest itself in my wanting to exercise vigorously? Because that would be anorexia, right? But what’s this, then? Eating for comfort? Aren’t all disorders created equal? Is one better than the next?
I’m sick of seeing a million things I can’t afford. I’m tired of always being late for the rent (and I’m sure The Boyfriend is tired of it too, although he’d never say so). And I’m frustrated with my dusty degree. The Boyfriend assures me that things will be vastly different when we move to the U.S. He believes he’ll be the one slingin’ hash while I’m toting off to a brilliant office job. I’m not so sure. Things are competitive here but I have no idea of what I’m in for once we move back home. I’m just wondering when I’ll start to really feel comfortable and satisfied and I’ve grown impatient in my anticipation.
Does anyone really love their job? Is there any person who can say without a doubt in their mind that they feel absolutely satisfied with their occupation? That the stresses and worries, the pressing deadlines and annoying coworkers, the needy customers and clientele are all a part of the overall joy that is their chosen career?
Presently, I’m considering and reconsidering what I’ve chosen to do with my life. There are a million jobs out there and people are still inventing positions to help end unemployment crises. How can a person decide exactly what it is they want to do with their lives? Perhaps one can narrow it down through a process of elimination, crossing out the things you know you don’t desire from your chosen profession. Meanwhile, as I pull on my old ‘jeans and t-shirt’ uniform and get ready for yet another shift at the neighborhood pub, my mental list of eliminations grows.
“So what are the limitations with your visa?”
“I can work part-time while attending classes and full-time when on breaks.”
“Oh, I see. This is a full-time job and we would really need someone here everyday. That seems like it would be a problem for you… Sorry, we’ll keep your resume on file.”
“That’s okay. Thank you for your time.”
Immediately after this conversation, I felt like opening the fridge and eating whatever was available.
Is this why I don’t write anymore? Is this why I don’t care enough to work out? I lie to myself: Tomorrow I’ll wake up early and do Pilates before breakfast. I’ll go for a jog in the evening when it cools off outside, knowing good and well that my running shoes and Pilates mat will continue to collect dust at the back of the closet.
Why can’t it be the other way around? Food offers no comfort at the end of the last swallow; I just look in the mirror and feel worse. Why can’t my frustration manifest itself in my wanting to exercise vigorously? Because that would be anorexia, right? But what’s this, then? Eating for comfort? Aren’t all disorders created equal? Is one better than the next?
I’m sick of seeing a million things I can’t afford. I’m tired of always being late for the rent (and I’m sure The Boyfriend is tired of it too, although he’d never say so). And I’m frustrated with my dusty degree. The Boyfriend assures me that things will be vastly different when we move to the U.S. He believes he’ll be the one slingin’ hash while I’m toting off to a brilliant office job. I’m not so sure. Things are competitive here but I have no idea of what I’m in for once we move back home. I’m just wondering when I’ll start to really feel comfortable and satisfied and I’ve grown impatient in my anticipation.
Does anyone really love their job? Is there any person who can say without a doubt in their mind that they feel absolutely satisfied with their occupation? That the stresses and worries, the pressing deadlines and annoying coworkers, the needy customers and clientele are all a part of the overall joy that is their chosen career?
Presently, I’m considering and reconsidering what I’ve chosen to do with my life. There are a million jobs out there and people are still inventing positions to help end unemployment crises. How can a person decide exactly what it is they want to do with their lives? Perhaps one can narrow it down through a process of elimination, crossing out the things you know you don’t desire from your chosen profession. Meanwhile, as I pull on my old ‘jeans and t-shirt’ uniform and get ready for yet another shift at the neighborhood pub, my mental list of eliminations grows.
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