Quitter

Let’s face facts, people.

I’m not a butcher.

Hell, I barely qualify as a meat cutter.

What I am?

What I am . . . is a quitter. 

                I don’t like stress.  So when something (or someone) stresses me out, it gets eliminated from my life.  Because life’s too short.

That’s why I quit writing for that indie rag—it just became a deadline for me; stopped being fun.  They told me I was their best writer.  The magazine doesn’t exist anymore.

I joined a club for women who like craft beer.  They asked me to head up their social committee.  I told them no.  They managed to talk me into it anyways.  So I tried it for a few months.  And quit.

I am not a leader; I don’t like to be in charge.  I don’t want to be responsible for other people, and I also don’t like other people to have to be responsible for me.  I like to do my own thing, yes.  Sometimes people come along.  Most times they don’t. 

I applied for a part-time copyediting job with the Riverfront Times.  Not sure why; probably so that I can quit that, too.             

I have no ambition.  Some people want to “climb the corporate ladder,” snag that corner office, and rake in the big bucks.  Not me.

            Once a year my boss asks me where I’d like to go with the company, if I’d be interested in working for another department, or another position within our department.  I just say, “Nah . . . I’m good.”  He wants to know if they’re challenging me enough in my current position?  Sure!  (Which is code for, “Please don’t push any more work off onto me.”) 

            I’m not going to meat school.

            Never called that guy I met at Whole Foods who owns the slaughterhouses.

            I never text Foster about pig days anymore.

            I have made no effort to get back down to Ste. Gen since deer season.             

            What have I stuck with?  Well, it’s taken me three seasons to finally get comfortable riding my motorcycle, and that’s something that gave me major anxiety when I first started doing it. 

            I’ve played soccer since I could walk.  Sometimes I hate it.  But I love it.  Some day it’ll probably kill me.  I’ll always love it. 

            I’ve lived in the same apartment for five years, even though I always told myself I wanted a house by the time I’m 30.  My landlady told me that some of our tenants have been there for upwards of thirty years.  On the one hand, that’s a scary thought.  On the other, if the place sucked, I figure they’d have left by now.    

            I’m still trying to keep this ratchet-ass blog afloat, after only about a year and a half.  I feel obligated to write, because otherwise I’m not doing anything with that English degree collecting dust on a shelf above my desk at work.  Sometimes I want to quit.  I don’t feel like writing.  I don’t know what to write about. 

I’ve been at this insurance company for six years now.  I’ve had bad jobs before; I’ve been treated very poorly by past employers.  If it wasn’t a really good job, with really good people . . . I probably would’ve quit long ago.  The security and the benefits are almost a catch-22.  I need health insurance, for as fucked up as my body is, and as much soccer as I play.  The ridiculous amount of vacation time I’m given makes it possible for me to take off on butchering adventures.  But at the same time, it’s those benefits, and that security, (not to mention the pay) that keep me here.  Afraid to actually pursue my passion and see if it could possibly work. 

Foster’s fancy Belgian restaurant closed down, after winning all kinds of awards; a disheartening thing to hear.  He’s already pursuing a new venture—an ice cream shop—but still, it reveals the harsh reality to me that dreams fail.             

            I don’t know what to do with myself.  Cory is gone from the shop for good, so I guess I’ve sort of picked up his seasonal shifts.  It’s extra cash in my pocket.  But the fire’s gone out.  I just surpassed my two-year anniversary there, and now I feel like it’s time to branch out, see what else is out there.  Whenever I get a day off I think to myself, “I should go by such-and-such shop today, see if they’d take me on and teach me some stuff.”  But then I never do.  I simply return to what I already know, because it’s easier.  I asked Cory what he thought I should do; he was no help. 

            And I’m so distracted with other things.  There’s so much out there to learn!  A friend recently began teaching me how to shoot guns—something that I’ve never had any particular interest in—but after one session I can hit a six-inch target with a .9mm at about 75% accuracy and, well . . . now I want to do it more.  Last weekend at a party I was taught a pole trick (how to “sit” with my legs crossed around the pole) and now I want to learn more about that. 

            I don’t know where I’m going.  During my “Turning-30 Crisis” I realized that I’m not making a difference in the world.  I keep wondering if one day opening my own shop could be the difference I make.  Hell, I’m the protégé of the pitmaster of the best barbecue joint in town, where they cook a ton—literally, a ton—of meat every day.  I have plenty of culinary connections where I could provide ethically raised and slaughtered meat.  Which would then put me in direct competition with Burt and the very people who taught me everything I know. 

            All I know is, I’m not making a difference by allowing indecision to paralyze me. 

            All I know is . . . I’m not ready to quit just yet. 

 

 I might not be a butcher, but I’ll be damned if I don’t cut a gorgeous tray of filet mignon!