Tom Petty famously (?) declared that the waiting is the hardest part, but he also said that you don’t know how it feels to be him, so maybe his waiting is different? Granted, when you’re blonde and high in southern California, I’m sure that most things aren’t defined by what the rest of America has deemed the norm. Wait, didn’t he say that coming down was the hardest thing? But he makes free fallin’ sound so great. Whatever. Get a haircut.
The hardest parts are often the most worthwhile (wink). I have little memory of things that have come easily (double wink), but I have little memory period (comma) so there you go. As much as I despise delay, as little merit as I see in patience, especially given the misguided desires and outcomes of many long term investments and strategies (don’t try to tell me we’re playing chess on what is clearly a checkers board), I have to admit that I’m mostly defined by extended difficulties. As such, I’ve found it helpful to notice these times of duress, and in said recognition proclaim to bystanders or piles of dogs or stray garbage that “I must be doing something right.“
Accepting the pushback from life as a challenge has led me to find purpose in the waiting line. Now, while I lack the character and grace of a genius waitress within the metaphorical queues of chaos that frequently test our limits of masochistic indulgences, I still am able to withstand, even enjoy my prolapsed existence between others, sometimes without laughing about how the people behind me are going to deal with my farts.
I went in to the bank the other day (because yes, you can still go in to a bank) and there was a line. The woman ahead of me shifted and sighed and smelled, but it was fine because I had She Sells Sanctuary playing in my head. When it was finally my turn at the window, I banked with a lovely young woman and pocketed some Dum-Dums. Worth it. Later that day I went for some things from the grocery, and wouldn’t you know it, nothing but long lines. Ah, but you’ve forgotten about US magazine (as you probably should have) and its inherent ability to erase time. The traffic through the parking lot was just another in a series of forceful blockades from front row status (the American dream).
In said circumstances, one might think, “Well that’s time I’ll never get back!” But since when do you ever get back time, dumb-ass? The point isn’t to withstand hardship towards a payoff, it’s to find acceptance, appreciation, peace in the middle. I know that sounds like justifying stagnancy, and maybe it is, but so what? You can’t prove to me that an end result really matters.
This evening there's a mixer for one of my new jobs at The Coyote Moon, a decent enough local dive with cheap wells and a seventy-five cent taco night. I decide to go, and am excited to make new friends and show them my drunk and taco. There's a special cocktail created for the event, mixed in a large bowl on a side table, available for any and all to enjoy. Dressed in my blue collar-ado best, I walk over and there’s no punchline
