Fourteen Days. I worked 14 days straight, many of them 10 hours or longer. I’m not certain, but I think that’s a new record for me. It would have been longer if my assistant hadn’t offered to work open to close on 9/11 so I could have one day off. I believe at that time, I had already worked 7 straight, maybe more, so if I hadn’t taken her up on her offer…fuck! I’m too old for this shit, and for the record, no I do not get paid overtime, I’m salaried. My younger son does get paid for overtime, so basically, he’s making more than me these days…fuck!
How did I get here? How did my life get so fucked up that me working 14 days straight, doesn’t even matter, except for my health? I have no one to get home to, no one to play with, no plans that are dashed due to me working every single day. Basically, I work, eat, sleep, repeat and it’s no biggie. Except for me having raw sewage coming up my basement floor drain when I took a shower or did a load of laundry. However, since I have a long-term relationship with my plumber, he had workers come and rod out my lines without me being home…thank you Greg Hannah. He knows I’m good for the money, so he did me a solid when I left him a detailed phone message about my stinky woes. There are definite benefits for living in the same house my entire life.
Yes, I have solid relationships with my plumber and most definitely my mechanic. I used to have a very reliable relationship with my electrician, until he retired. Interesting story there, I have no idea what he looks like, but he serviced our house for years. I asked a fellow Boy Scout leader to recommend an electrician and as it turns out, the dude went to high school with my brother and knew our house inside and out. He loved talking with my dad as he did work on our house, but I never personally met him. My plumber and mechanic, similar stories. They loved chatting with my dad and so they treat me like family. At least I have that going for me, right?
As for a personal relationship with a man, I haven’t even been kissed in over two years. Facebook likes to keep reminding me about John the Pilot and the life I thought I was living. Five years ago, six years ago, doesn’t really matter, it was all a lie anyways. Nah, I did have fun while the party lasted, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s dead. Maybe he is, I don’t know and odds are, I will never know. He hasn’t bothered with me in what…two years? Everyone said I would never get a dime out of him for the back rent he owed me, but I did much better than that. Yes, he still owes me a lot of money, but I decided that my sanity was worth more than that, so I let it go.
Then, the world exploded and life as I knew it would never be the same, so why not work day after day, after day? Well, the lack of compensation is a bitch, but what else would I be doing? I think it’s funny that so many people are still running around feeling threatened and yet, I see Oktoberfests and drive by carnivals on my way home from work. I see people posting about the events they go to and I have to wonder, WTF? To each his own I suppose, but really? How can such opposite ends of the spectrum exist simultaneously?
I give up. Instead, I focus on using what very little free time I have on doing laundry (without raw sewage coming up my basement floor drain, thank you Greg Hannah), buying groceries and processing meals that will last me the week and drinking. Oh, I also managed to slip in some self-care and had a 90-minute massage that felt like it only lasted 30, but it was good to at least, attempt to unplug for 90 minutes and I’m taking a few moments to knock out this blog because it is truly something that makes me happy.
As the sun sets and I pound down another Oktoberfest Goose Island beer, I take in the lovely aroma of someone having a campfire and the beef stew and chicken curry simmering on the stovetop, food for the week, remember? Yeah, life may never be what I once knew, ever again. I may never know the touch of a man again either, but I do know how to live well. I know how to cook well, drink well and survive…well. I’m not certain what I’m hearing between the stereo of windchimes dancing in my backyard, but I could swear it’s the drums of a marching band. I love marching bands, especially their drums. I know it’s silly, but they make my heart sing! That’s what matters most in life, finding ways to make one’s heart sing. Here’s to finding what makes your heart sing…cheers!
I may be alone, but at least I’m no longer living that lie. Another one, perhaps has taken its place?
I just looked at tomorrow’s schedule, there’s only three of us, me open to close…one, maybe twos more beers, cheers!
#thelieswechoosetolivewith
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