MENTAL HEALTH | GROWTH

I Never Applied For a Job I Had to Take

My life would never be the same

My unopened Tito’s Vodka bottle mocks me from its perch on the top shelf. It is nestled neatly next to the unopened Jose Cuervo Silver Blue Agave bottle. A light dusting covers the three bottles of La Crema Pinot Noir.

They stare at me whenever I open the pantry door.

I feel their judgment.

It has been too long to remember the last time I had an adult beverage. This was not a conscious decision. It just happened. I miss it, them, and all the associated feelings of camaraderie that accompanied sharing cocktails. It was a natural reflex to sit on the lanai after a long day when you lived in Florida. We overlooked the water, dined, and sipped on iced spirits.

I was in my element.

The lull of the river current supplied soothing background noise. Lizards and frogs clung to the screens. Our dog stalked the abundant wildlife. This included the long-necked Sandhill cranes and the mullet that broke through the surface of the river. Those fish jumped high enough to fully somersault. I had nicknamed them Happy Fish. They were fearless and safe with their adept skills in avoiding their prey.

I was, too.

Neighbors were plentiful and always ready to join in for a Happy Hour. Conversation flowed easily, and so did the assorted beverages.

We all needed to power down.

My employment came with the potential for paralyzing stress. At the very least, exhaustion lingered under the surface. My chosen profession was management in the fast-paced food and beverage industry. Customer service was my forte. Food costs, employee call-outs, payroll, and reservations all jockeyed for position on the priority list. This was heaven to me.

I made sure to have a side of horseradish ready to sneak to Mrs. Craven whenever I saw her name on the seating chart. The Chef hated that. In his mind, we shouldn’t pander to guests. His temperament dictated tiptoeing. I was regarded as bold and ballsy by willfully risking his wrath upon discovery. His prime rib entrée was perfect as he planned.

Any side requests as minor as asking for more horseradish resulted in a snarl and refusal by the domineering Chef. I would do it regardless because it made ol’ Mrs. Craven happy.

My ability to navigate in and around the tense atmosphere filled my heart and satisfied my people-pleasing desires.

Wine distributors stopped by to offer samples for our consideration. We pulled up the thick leather chairs in the General Manager’s office to oblige. More often than not, by the time the Reps left the property, the warmth coursed through me with love, and the staff could do no wrong.

After a long day or night, coming home meant shoes were kicked off at the front door, and a skinny margarita was first on the agenda.

I dreamed of opening a quaint Bed and Breakfast or a small Bistro. I even had a name picked out. “Appe-teasers” would serve mini bite-sized entrée like foods. Tapas of a sort would include mini beef wellington.

I knew I was born to work in the hospitality industry, and there were opportunities for continued growth all around me.

Dreams.

Funny how life changes.

Suddenly, everything I enjoyed about my working world was wrestled forcibly away and replaced. A smack in the face of reality caused confusion and an echo of emptiness which were all-consuming. Out of the blue, a job that I never wanted was suddenly imposed upon me. I quickly learned firsthand that nothing in life was in my control. Resentment took hold of me.

I instantly grieved that loss and realized that I am small, so very small.

I may not even matter at all.

How do I survive without the life I had cultivated with love?

It had evaporated.

It all began with a whirlwind of negativity that had descended with blackened clouds and sucked me into a vortex of upheaval. One day, fresh fruit-filled Sangria was loved poolside with friends, and the next day I was living someone else’s life.

That’s dramatic and maybe not exact. It felt like it happened overnight, though. There’s no denying the inner turmoil when the rug is pulled out from under you.

My marriage slid rapidly downhill. Divorce loomed. Our middle child was in a volatile relationship and pregnant at 20 years old. The State of Florida Department of Children and Families insisted that I help her learn how to parent. It was the only alternative to avoid the baby becoming mired in, or lost in maybe, the foster care system. My first grandchild would be a boy. He needed help.

I found myself in temporary housing 90 minutes away from everyone I knew and loved.

I no longer lived in my home.

Gone were those jobs where taste-testing a new honey bourbon was standard protocol. There were no weekend weddings to help a bride or available time to arrange the banquets I loved. My days were no longer mine to orchestrate. Happy Hours ceased to exist.

In a short period, and before I knew what was happening, I was given a job that I had never asked for nor even considered. My temporary care assignment became fruitless. My daughter made her choice, and it didn’t include our current setting.

At 53 years old (young?), everything was different. Nothing was the same. More often than not, and especially during nighttime feedings, I wondered what the hell happened to my life.

I was morally forced into becoming the full-time guardian of my grandson when he was just about 7 weeks old. The part-time, temporary gig was over.

Saying no was not an option for me, for him, or for my daughter.

A new life, a new me, and a new job were on the docket.

My head spun while I kept it together to survive. I created new routines. Most of the time, my brain was in overdrive. I was erased from my previous life and felt purposeless. Until one day arrived and brought with it a deep understanding. I didn’t feel invisible anymore.

The realization that my days in hospitality were over finally rooted with clarity. It was okay; I was okay, and the baby was happy. We had plans for a fulfilling future together.

It was as I cradled this freshly powdered, delicious-smelling baby that I was overcome with the magnitude of trust I was given. His coos and giggles when I sang were magical. I did have a purpose, and it was by far the most transformative change I never knew I needed.

I mattered, after all.

It just looked different than in the past.

Although this job of caring for a brand new life, starting over, was not one I applied for, I wouldn’t change anything. The world is much bigger than me and vastly better than what my little mind thought was important.

The monetary pay is non-existent; the rewards are endless.

This job is one I will never leave, never quit, and couldn’t care less about the lack of vacation or sick days. Those days do not exist. There is no clocking out. It is a more difficult job than sneaking condiments to any guest.

The benefits make every second worth it.

I don’t wait for annual bonuses or raises. I get daily doses of inspiration intermingled with the difficulties. Every stress is washed away when my impish grandson looks at me with his big blue eyes, with a crooked grin, and says, “Gimme a hug and 100 kisses!”

Come September, we will celebrate his 4th birthday three days after I turn 57. And as I watch in awe as this little sponge evolves with self-sufficiency, I may celebrate with a glass of wine. Or not.

It’s all about my boss. He deserves the best of me that I can give.

He has never told me I can’t have a drink here or there. I don’t think he would care.

Maybe it’s my self-imposed expectations that led the way on that decision. Life on-call can be tricky. This is the only job where my responsibilities outweighed the enjoyment of a nice long pour.

It doesn’t matter in the scheme of important things. The Tito’s Vodka can wait. I have been trusted with the most significant position I’ve ever had.

Every blue moon, I think of Mrs. Craven and wonder if she started bringing her own horseradish.

I never applied for a job I had to take.

My life would never be the same.

It would be better, much, much better.

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