Thursday, November 17, 2011

this poem i shall call "part-time job" : an ode to being bad at what should probably be easy.

The walk to work is what I like to call as my "anxiety walk."
Actually, I'll call each day that I go to work as an "anxiety day." I wake up and there it is,
this pit in my stomach.
I go about my errands--go for my run,
breathe in the crisp Los Angeles morning air and wonder what it's like back home
back in the lovely gray of Philadelphia.
Or wonder what it's like in New York City, a place that is my other home,
a place I miss so much my heart sometimes hurts.
New York is like that awkward cousin you love and grew up with but isn't quite as close as a sibling.
I miss New York.
I go about my day. Drink my coffee. Lick the latte foam off, not hesitating because I'm in public, because (let's be honest) latte foam is just too good to not lick off.
I LOVE LATTE FOAM!
(I get pissed when Starbucks skimps out on me).
Latte art is pretty amazing too, I'm getting side-tracked.
And there it is, that knot of anxiety twisting in my chest, in my belly, in my hands as I flex them open and closed.
I walk to work and I swallow anxiety.
I know what's coming.
Phonecalls. 
So. Many. Phonecalls.
It doesn't help it's so hard to understand the people on the other end of the phone and it also doesn't help people get so angry when you want them to repeat their address and order.
The phonecalls are my least favorite part.
I know what else is coming. The fumbling, the not knowing everything I should probably know. The hesitation with an order, the dinner rush.
I'm so bad at this job is a thought I think once every three minutes.
I am grateful and at the same time stressed because I know I should be grateful but I really get so nervous before work and also add guilt to the pile for not being as grateful as I should be and well goodness,
I am a walking mess of anxiety.
Ugh.
I think I am destined to only work in chaotic places--
this is not good for a girl who's Puerto Rican and Italian and already feels emotions at a rapid speed.
One day I can only hope to work a job I'm actually good at.
But until then, I will be that awkward kind-of new girl at work who still can't properly open a wine bottle and thinks about eating all the bread all the time.



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