Rudy plunks two Jack and Cokes in front of me and whistles through his teeth, which are stained from nicotine. Before I can grab the drinks and run, he pushes his mouth to my ear. "God, I love the way you look in those pants. Although I'd like to see how you look without them." There is a twang in his voice from somewhere south. He's short, skinny, and at least ten years younger than he looks.
I pull away from him and load the cocktails onto a tray in silence, as I resigned long ago to ignore the comments instead of fight them.
I rush the drinks to Table Six and then run back to the kitchen to check on an order of buffalo wings, which are being held hostage by a vindictive line cook. It's eleven o'clock on a Saturday night at Tommy's, I have seventeen checks in my apron, mostly for tables with guys who have hopped over from the strip club next door. I've had my ass pinched eleven times, been called "bitch" by two separate customers, and caught a group of underage girls snorting coke in the bathroom. In the narrow corridor outside the kitchen, I pass Paul, the middle-aged floor manager, dressed in an outfit Tom Jones would wear for a concert. He stares up at the ceiling with his back against the wall.
"Baby, I may need to lie down." I smell the VO and water on his breath while he speaks, as he sways from side to side.
"I'll help you get upstairs," I offer, but barely get the words out before one of the tables inside starts shouting, "Where's our friggin' waitress!"
Three hours later, I walk through the deserted streets of Georgetown to my tiny apartment. I take the cash out of my apron, place it in a drawer, and collapse onto my bed. I want a cigarette, but I'm trying to quit. Again. I head to the kitchen and rummage around the garbage to salvage a smoke from the half empty pack I had tossed the day before. I find a butt that's partially intact, light up, and inhale deeply. How did I wind up working at a dive bar, owned by a man I never met, who has been serving time for tax evasion since before I started?
I had taken a semester leave from school and needed money to pay my expenses. I promised myself that Tommy's would be a temporary stint, but as with other jobs before, I stayed much longer than intended. I felt compelled to stay, had excuses as to why I needed to stay, and convinced myself that no other employer in the world would ever want me to work for them, therefore I had to stay.
I eventually left Tommy's, yet my next job proved to be a reincarnation of Tommy's in a different setting, as did the next one, and the next one, and the next. No matter what job or industry I worked in, restaurants, retail stores, or offices, I stumbled upon the same lecherous bartenders, the same nasty cooks, the same dysfunctional bosses, and the same sub standard pay. I always had an excuse to stay in the Bad Job. I felt trapped in the Bad Job. I felt like no one else would hire me or give me that tiny, inconsequential benefit that the Bad Job offered. Who cares if I'm only making minimum wage, how could I possibly live without my discount on custom orthotics, or lead crystal table ware?
After years of running on the Bad Job treadmill, I realized that I apparently had some unconscious agreement with myself about money, work, and self worth. For some reason, I felt the need to work twice as hard as everyone else, for less pay, and in volatile environments. There are numerous reasons why I may have had this agreement with myself, but most importantly, once I realized I had it, I had the chance to change it.
Some refer to these unconscious agreements as our "blind spots," patterns in our personality that are so deep, we often don't realize they are there. However, once we are able to detach from our own thoughts through meditation, we increase our ability to see them. Until then, these blind spots can prevent a Fierce Diva from living the life she loves, and who would want anything to get in the way of that?
Where do you have unconscious agreements that interfere with living the life you love? Is it with work? Friendships? Your marriage? Money? Your relationship to your body? Meditate on it, Divas. And remember, you not only have the right to change those agreements, you have carte blanche to nullify those contracts completely.
Namaste, Divas!
©2012 Ilene Evans
