Woke up at 11, the day already half over. I remember waking up at 6 during university, rushing to be at the bakery by 6:30 and the wonderful feeling of liberation at 2pm, work done and the whole day still ahead of me. Then I had drive, ambition, even if it was only to complete my degree and graduate with my dignity intact. Now my drive is gone. I've been in limbo too long, waiting for this contract that can't be signed until the third party my boss is supposed to be negotiating with finally makes an offer. It was supposed to happen quickly. Trusting that it would, I gave away all my belongings in Montreal, and came back here to Belgium with only a duffel bag and my papers. I figured two weeks, max, would be all it would take before I was back at work full time. Instead they had me work part time through October, and for the last two weeks I've had just over 10 hours of work a week. I know this is untenable.
Believe me, I know others would kill to have this kind of freedom. My friends I left behind have said they're jealous. But what kind of freedom is it when I'm not free to seek out other employment, nor to work the hours I'd like to? The solution, of course, is to swallow my pride, translate my résumé and go back to HORECA, as they call it here--hospitality work. Find a weekend job at a restaurant, a café or a hotel. I suppose the reason I'm reluctant to do that now has to do with the last restaurant gig I had, where the owner was a manipulative, lying and thieving excuse of a man who skimmed 30% off our tips for himself. When I quit after a month, he accused me of lying to him about my work status and only paid me 2/3 of what he owed me. I hope that man has a heart attack.
But the little voice in my head is right: I need to buck up and get another dead-end job. It doesn't matter that I no longer have the excuse that it's just to get through university. My first restaurant gig, I was 16 and bussed tables at a skeevy Italian joint not far from my home town. My coworkers were a bunch of lewd, dysfunctional social rejects. My immediate superior, a 25-year-old bottle blonde addicted to weight loss pills, had me convinced I wouldn't be doing this at her age. I would never become like her. But look at me now. No pill addiction, but smoking weed and drinking beer every chance I get just to distract myself from the fact that I've just made the biggest move of my life, put an ocean between myself and my family and friends, for a career that isn't panning out.
This journaling will be like a slap in the face, I hope. I need to pull myself up by my bootstraps, stop feeling sorry for myself, and do what I have to do to survive.
Believe me, I know others would kill to have this kind of freedom. My friends I left behind have said they're jealous. But what kind of freedom is it when I'm not free to seek out other employment, nor to work the hours I'd like to? The solution, of course, is to swallow my pride, translate my résumé and go back to HORECA, as they call it here--hospitality work. Find a weekend job at a restaurant, a café or a hotel. I suppose the reason I'm reluctant to do that now has to do with the last restaurant gig I had, where the owner was a manipulative, lying and thieving excuse of a man who skimmed 30% off our tips for himself. When I quit after a month, he accused me of lying to him about my work status and only paid me 2/3 of what he owed me. I hope that man has a heart attack.
But the little voice in my head is right: I need to buck up and get another dead-end job. It doesn't matter that I no longer have the excuse that it's just to get through university. My first restaurant gig, I was 16 and bussed tables at a skeevy Italian joint not far from my home town. My coworkers were a bunch of lewd, dysfunctional social rejects. My immediate superior, a 25-year-old bottle blonde addicted to weight loss pills, had me convinced I wouldn't be doing this at her age. I would never become like her. But look at me now. No pill addiction, but smoking weed and drinking beer every chance I get just to distract myself from the fact that I've just made the biggest move of my life, put an ocean between myself and my family and friends, for a career that isn't panning out.
This journaling will be like a slap in the face, I hope. I need to pull myself up by my bootstraps, stop feeling sorry for myself, and do what I have to do to survive.
