bitterwaitress

40 looms large. It does so in the guise of 39. I’m not so much worried about turning 40, in fact it will be a miracle when and if (God willing) it happens. No, it’s 39, which I will be in a month, that I fear. Because when I turn 39, I can then begin a whole year of worrying about turning 40. At which point doing so will be a relief.This is pretty much the same thing that happened when I was 29; in fact, it was exactly the same thing (and to a lesser extent when I turned 34). This lead me to a habit - I like to call it a tradition - that many people will think is insane: about a month before my birthday, I will start saying that I am the impending age. So in that vein, everyone, I’m 39. And therefore I am worrying about turning 40.

 

40 is the new 30. I love whoever came up with that. It’s right up there with “Whatever happens in Vegas…” Whatever happens at 40, well, will happen at 40 I suppose. One of the things that I hope will happen at 40 is that I will no longer be in the restaurant business, unless it’s just for extra cash.As I type this I realize there’s always an “except.” I always leave that “out clause” which allows me to perpetuate working in a field at which excel and which I hate. Earlier today I determined that I will have a six pack (abs, not Bud) before I turn 40. I think that will be a lot easier for me to accomplish than to extricate myself from the restaurant business. Both involve suffering, both offer only fleeting rewards.

  

So why the “out clause?” I wish I knew, I think I might. Fear is the easy answer. Too easy. On the surface the reasons we stay stuck in life situations are always simple, and are always based in fear. On a deeper level the details are far more complex, like a weird set of intertwined roots in our psyche. As I read this I also wonder when we became a society so fascinated with self-examination, and what a luxury that is. People struggling to raise kids, battle poverty, deal with serious health issues - they do not have the luxury of self-examination. They are to busy trying to get by. I guess the “out clause” is my fail safe, my way of saying that I will always have a way of “getting by.”

  

One thing that I have been trying to get past, and which I believe I *have* to get past this year, is the self-flagellation that goes with having had amazing educational opportunities and still being, well, a waiter. It’s very disheartening to wait on people younger than I, overhearing them talking about their times at universities and colleges which I turned down. Twenty years ago. What do they have that I didn’t? I’m smart, cunning even, I work hard, I know my way around the English language better than most (go ahead, scout for misspellings), and I was multi-tasking since I was a 15-year-old busser. What have I missed that brought me to the precipice of 40 (I had to include that, it reads so cheesy) still in waiter black, where others with lesser faculties have gotten professional degrees, started their own companies, etc.?

 

Part of it is that I spent so many years telling myself that these people lived the lives of cogs in our society’s wheels. That I was an individuals whose employment (not career) path allowed for me to pursue other, more creative and interesting pursuits. Now, that’s all well and good if one actually pursues them. Alcohol and drug abuse, however glamorous (and it can be, for a while) are not creative pursuits. Nor is dealing with a mis-diagnosed mental condition. As a decade plus of living a high-impact life drew to a close, I began to see that the cogs had spun their way to freedom - they had paid vacations, business travel, life partners, retirement accounts, nice apartments. Square footage is freedom in New York, just like a car with good handling and high torque is in Los Angeles.

  

The other part of this internal struggle, this battle I lose a little every day, is a little harder to recognize, a little sinister even. It’s the “out clause.” It allows me to fall back onto or into an income situation rather than follow through on a lead in some other field, whether it be administrative work, writing, going back to school, etc. The “out clause,” it seems, gets me out of nothing. It’s sloth with justification, an income -padded cell, safely shielded from more challenging, more rewarding pursuits.

 

So, will I abandon my ” out clause,” hang up my apron (symbolic at this point) by the time I am 40? The part of me that enjoys the luxury of self-examination says that “if I do, great. If not, don’t beat yourself up.” Some work I’ve been doing on this problem lately has suggested that maybe it’s not so bad to rough myself up a little bit. Really, after ten years of poisoning myself with chemicals, what’s a little bit of being hard on myself in the name of self-actualization?

 

My hope is that I can. My determination is that I will, that I won’t shirk away from the seemingly impossible choices of pursuing a new source of income this “late in life,” and of giving up the prejudice imposed on my age, by me. Will the next thirteen months find me - will I find me - more willing (I’m able) to pursue more education, to do whatever it takes to become the photographer I have finally admitted to myself (and to you ) that I want to be. Somewhere along the way will I take advantage of the real but fleeting writing opportunities that have come my way? Or are they another “out clause,” just ones that reflects the sun of LA and the stars of Hollywood?

 

Most importantly, will I get that six pack?