#51 | birthday
Thoughts, out of order:
Food is great, but most restaurants suck.
On Friday, I had another shift at the restaurant. We're so understaffed, I've realized, and it burns everyone out.
I've quickly become one of the server's favorite coworkers for some reason. He's a tall, 30-something Syrian-Algerian guy who said I am a 'sweet girl.' We had a lot of people waiting at the door but because of being understaffed there weren't enough people to clean the tables, so I bussed a lot of them. While doing so, he pulled me aside and said, "It's not normal that you have to do this. You are the host, you are supposed to just host. This place is so disorganized and badly managed. If you can work somewhere else, do it. That's what I am trying to do."
It's true. The bussers and servers get paid more than I do, even though I spend a solid chunk of my time doing work that aligns with theirs. Working at the restaurant for a few weeks has made it obvious that mismanagement and understaffing are burning everyone out, and the Ramadan rush makes it all so much worse. I set a personal goal to stay until Eid, but I'm exhausted already. Sixty hour weeks is not healthy for my mind or body, and if I have the ability to avoid it, I think I should. I might quit sooner. I can't even really eat the food there because the vegetarian options are falafel (bad for my stomach) and pizza (also bad for my stomach). I ate chicken shawarma laffa during my shift this afternoon because my stomach has been in a sad state and it made me feel sick. My other coworker brought in an acai bowl. Maybe I'll get one tomorrow.
My birthday was this week. I celebrated in multiple forms. On the actual day of, I watched a silly movie with my dear friend and ate noodles for longevity.
Later in the week, I went to a set at my favorite music venue. On Thursdays specifically, there's self-serve vegetarian/vegan food, and mats for people to lay down. The music is always electronic ambient house. I had an edible, some delicious borscht, pasta, and the best carrot cake of my life. I realized that I should just quit my exhausting restaurant job and cook Thursdays at the venue instead. It would make me much happier and be closer to all of my interests at once. When I got home, I immediately sent the venue owners an email.
At the venue, I saw my previous housemate for the first time in a couple months. Our birthdays are very close to each other. He told me he and his partner also broke up recently, but he made it obvious he didn't want to unpack right then and there in front of our other friends. I said, well, we're in this together now. happy birthday, am I right? Then I dapped him up and we both laughed to everyone else's confusion.
On Saturday, I took a day trip to Connecticut with a few friends to Grace Farms, which is a beautifully designed space for people to sample free-trade tea and lounge about. They have a cafeteria, too, with tasty organic food. I had tomato soup and a sunflower butter and strawberry jam sandwich, which was perfectly toasted. It was gorgeous weather too, with blue skies and sunshine gently melting the untouched snow around us.
In the evening, we returned to the city for a dinner reservation I made at a vegetarian restaurant. My closest friends were all present. I spontaneously got the wine pairing and felt drunk after the first half-glass. Everyone made me laugh and smile and the conversation was so pleasant and genuine; most of them also came back to my apartment where we continued talking until 2:30 am. I'm so glad I've surrounded myself with people that inspire and are real with me, who have given me so much love during a difficult time in my life.
It was a fine dining restaurant, and I realized that everyone consumes food differently. After eating a dish, some of my friends will say they wish it had more of this or that ingredient—not to be haters, but to think sharply. It's a form of discussion. But despite loving food as a craft, I'm not very critical. When I don't like a dish, my critiques are very simple and generic. Not salty enough, or the flavor is not complex. I'm in it for the ride. My friend and I made an analogy to taking in art at a museum. I'm definitely innately drawn to art of certain themes or styles, just like how I'm drawn to some types of flavors or dishes. When looking at art, I like to observe certain details and techniques and wonder what they mean, just like with food where you can admire textures and shapes and wonder how they accomplished xyz and the experience they wanted you to have.
But besides that, I don't think about the details too hard, because I consider those things a matter of personal taste. When you look at art, you don't question it as much: the artist made it this way and I just have to examine the feeling it evokes in me. That's how I feel about food. The chefs made it this way, so I accept and simply think about the feelings it brings me. But you know, maybe my palate just isn't refined enough yet. I almost don't want it to be, because perhaps that means I won't enjoy things as much.
Today, I woke up missing her, again. I don't think I ever stop missing her. My labors accomplish temporary numbness and fleeting moments of joy, which are not insignificant, but they're ultimately a tourniquet on a wound that requires outside intervention. In most breakups, there is a path to closure on your own, even if long, but I just don't see one here. I've tried really hard. Maybe when you're heartbroken, you're just unable to see it until it's already behind you?
I'm so damn tired and all I'm doing is treading water. I've put in all this effort to rebuild my world around her absence. I frequently gather friends and find activities to spark joy; my birthday celebration was wonderful. But the next day I wondered, what's this all for if I wake up and she's not there? If I can't come home to her and tell her all about it, the way we used to fuse our brains together every night and talk ourselves to sleep? I'm supposed to live because existence alone is worth it. The amount I believe that statement changes depending on the day. The lunch shift was slow today and I journaled while choking back tears.
I go to work, I see my friends, I eat healthily, I work out. I've made steps toward my life goals, my passions—the things I thought I would never get to do. But at the end of every night, I feel the heavy weight of her absence and the way she left with little explanation, wounding me in the process. I'm still so hurt. I'm trapped until she speaks to me again, until she realizes how hurtful avoidance can be. I wish I had a timeline of when I'll be able to forgive her or when she'll apologize to me—anything to feel solid ground beneath my weary feet.