the mature thing to do

So for those readers who don't live within a ten-mile radius of wherever I am when I'm having a conversation about How My Life Is Going, here it is: I went and got a job. Yeah. I got two, actually, both of which are restaurant gigs, and both of which are so dazzlingly entry-level that you'd think I'd never even seen food before. One job is at a Greek restaurant in Fremont, and the other's at a bar in Ballard. (Sidebar: I have wanted to work in a bar since I knew what alcohol was. I have never, ever wanted to work in a club, because I like the idea of regulars at a bar but I am deeply mistrustful of anyone who patronizes a club so frequently that people greet him or her by name. Also, clubs tend to smell like Axe body spray, sweaty testicle and self-satisfaction, and I hate that.)

But my hostessing job at the Greek restaurant...I don't know if I can stay there. I've been there for, like, a week, and already I'm pretty sure it's not the gig for me. Because, okay: I am almost twenty-two, which, while not necessarily advanced, means that I'm kind of a grown-up. I cook for myself, I pay rent, I do my own taxes. I also think Invader Zim is hilarious and I still balk at the idea of being drug-tested. So the transition isn't quite complete, but still. Of the four other evening hostesses, I am the only one who can legally drink. One of us can't even buy a lotto ticket. They look at their tips at the end of the night and, I suppose, sigh happily at the thought of buying a round of vanilla shakes at the malt shoppe or whatever it is kids these days are doing with their money. I look at my tips and think "Oh shit." So I've got to find something else.

Man, but I am just so glad I didn't keep looking for an office job. I'll allow as how maybe I'd be in better financial shape, but...frankly, the idea of going to work every day and sitting down and just basically not moving for eight or nine hours was giving me hives.