Saturday Night And Sunday Morning
I cannot say where we left off, dear reader, in respect to my orientation in the world and the progression following, but it would be entirely safe to guess that I was tired, overwhelmed, and perhaps a little melancholy, and that any progression at the time seemed wholly in the wrong direction. But that’s obvious, as you can see by the lack of activity here in the last month. I forget so easily that talent is not innate and certain, but separate and predisposed to neglect, like a foster child. My care has been judged deficient.
Back again, then, and hopefully this time for good, though probably not. But quickly, to recap:
Work goes well, I suppose. The turbulence seems to have resided, as New York enters wakefulness and fewer people want to spend their time inside a restaurant. I finally have a decent schedule, all promotions and training complete, and the water looks decidedly calm from here on out. (I have been vociferous lately in decrying superstition, but—dash it—let me knock on wood for that last bit.)
What a rough few months! The amount of things I have had to learn only to become a waiter borders on the obnoxious. I know the ingredients of every dish of a seasonal menu that has changed three times since I’ve started (without ever having tasted them, as I am vegan and at my three-star French restaurant, the food most definitely is not). I have had a crash course in wine, a lost decade’s worth of knowledge (the decade lost to teetotalism*) in a few weeks (and continuing in a weekly wine course and a totally memorized inconstant wine list).
*(I am still a teetotaler at heart. I drink wine now only to have a knowledge of the damned stuff, and I have yet to experience a drunkenness beyond a glass-and-a-half’s worth of buzz. We’ll see if I go back to teetotalism at the end of this. I’ll save that deliberation for a later post. I can say that it remains my belief that I want to experience my life with all my consciousness and control available, and that strikes a hard—though not impossible—balance with the vino.)
(And to my friend, who always pictured me as a beer drinker: I have tried some microbrews and specialty beers that were quite appealing. Lovely stuff. The trouble with not drinking is that all you’ve got left to drink is water, soda, and juice. I have moved beyond the sweet stuff and like the crisp and fruity dryness of beer and wine with food. But all later, in another post.)
I have had other things moving in my life in the last short while which have also stolen my attention from you and this journal. I mean to garden this year and have embarked upon that. I have also been looking into the stock market because I cannot shake the idea of France and financial freedom. But details all for a later post. I really only meant to check in here. The night speeds on, I work all of tomorrow, and I had hoped to fit in a movie before sleep.
Be well, kind reader.