"Buzz buzz", says my alarm clock. It can't possibly be right, I just set this clock 5 hours ago? "Good morning love, how do you feel?" I am so tired. It's the only response I can muster. I have never worked this hard in my life, hands down. My new schedule rages at an unrelenting pace. In one week, I work in 3 different Gymboree sites, plus the Hotel gig. I've found myself sitting at the top of my street, pondering which way to turn...where am I going? Last week, I completely forgot that I was driving a stick shift, embarrassingly stalling out at a stop light (In my defense, this car is still new to me). My social life is laughable in comparison to its glory days, but my beloved friends often send home goodie bags consisting of family dinner leftovers and my favorite treats. My 30 minute break from the kitchen has become catch-up hour for Ry & I, condensing the day into a quick conversation, while I chew noisily and talk with my mouth full on the other end. When I finally cross the finish line into my house, it's time to shower off the funk and pop my kitchen scrubs into the washer (as I only have 1 set!). The dryer will have to wait until the morning. Even in my exhaustion, it takes a while for my busy brain to wind down at the end of the night. I realize that late night food tv is often aimed at men...Man vs Food (when did watching gluttons gorge themselves become entertainment?), Diners Drive-ins & Dives...I find myself channeling Anthony Bourdain here. "What did Guy Fieri ever do to me?" Can't help it, don't like it.
A big believer in the law of attraction, I realize that declaring my tiredness (muy cansada!) every morning is not helping me. Ryan & I begin to refer to it as "that which shall not be named." It's still there, I'm just not talking about it.
Despite that which shall not be named, my hunger for culinary knowledge grows. More live lobsters die at my hands, more tomatoes are diced in pico de gallo (at accelerating speeds!), 10 dozen oysters are shucked, shrimp are poached in a court bouillon, pizza dough whirls around the dough hook of a ridiculously large mixer...all before break. Tomato concasse (which I'm pretty sure translates to "pain in the ass") were covered in a culinary lab, but have now become a daily routine. Mastery through repetition. I try to tackle every job with determination, big or small, glamorous or not (often, not). Some co-workers still seemed surprised by the little-blonde-girl-that-could (Laurita...roll the "r"...has become my new nickname). They try to carry all the heavy items for me. They don't know how strong I am. Honestly, until recently, I didn't either.