Last night I was drivng home, eating Cappucino cupcakes from a place called Misha's, and listening to Adele's new album.
All the stoplights lit up green for me, just as I finished the last bite, and Adele hit that high note and wailed...I whooshed along, the windows open. I think that's the definition of "bliss." Delicious, everything was delicious, the wind and the cappucino icing and Adele's heartbreak, delicious.
Times are hard, dear readers, we all know this. Perhaps there are a few of you who are permanently wealthy, and for that I am jealous in a loving way. Alas, I am not among that group.
I come from hearty Midwestern stock, and manual labor is in my blood. Like a need to breathe, a need to love, I need to work. Sitting idle makes me die inside. When I am at parties, I instinctively help pick up glasses and I arrange things. When I go to The Gap, I re-fold the sweaters on the table. When I was a supervisor at the Hard Rock Hotel a few years ago, on my breaks I would sneak into the room service kitchen and help fold napkins. It made me relax. And it was a good excuse to steal ice cream.
A few weeks ago, I was watching Suze Orman, and she stared out of my TV and asked me why I don't believe I deserve to be rich. Why am I not saving more money? Why don't I deserve to own a house? I don't want to be in an investment, I want to be in a home. There's a difference, says Suze.
So I got a second job. I have a day job as a teacher, in the world of adult education, and I love it; but those rumors about teachers not making much money are sometimes true. I need money, rapidly, lots of it. I also have no fear of getting my hands dirty.
I've gone back, back, back to my roots and have taken a job as a waiter--not a server, I think that word is boring, I'm a waiter please--where I get to run around and chat with people and get something done. There's something satisfying in doing manual labor, and seeing the results of your work. I have already burned my hands twice. I'm so tough.
It's a lot of work, balancing two jobs; simply going home and taking off my shoes is an actual act of recreation, something I look forward to doing, as if it an event all in itself. "What are you going to do tonight?" "I'm going to go home, take off my shoes, and sit." "Wow! Have a good time." And I do.
Yesterday I drove home, listening to the radio, eating and smiling and feeling good. Of course, those cupcakes helped.