Sleep is a side effect of caffeine withdrawal

Jun 24, 2007 22:18


Here I am, putting down my second beer, a Goose Island seasonal, Summertime Kolsch, thinkin'. I work over sixty hours a week as a bartender, cleaner, and waitress, and I'm feeling alright. My only day off was just committed to inventory and waiting tables tomorrow, but that's alright. I'll get another day off sometime.

I guess, for the first time, it doesn't feel like I can't tell people what I'm going to do. And, for the first time, I feel allowed to be proud of myself. I got in. I'm going to be a doctor. A good one. I did something that 10 % of all applicants, which make up probably .5% of all college graduates, of which come from maybe 30% of the population do. And no, it wasn't easy. I didn't kick back a heck of a lot after freshman year, I don't have the money to pay for it, and yes, I won't be able to get married for another (at least) four years. By the time I'm done, I'll have put just over 300,000 of investment into my brain, and I'm a person who sometimes spaces out and puts her clean laundry into the freezer. Think about that, future surgery victims.

But mainly, I'm just glad to be off my feet, not having to smile at people as small children throw food on the floor I just vacuumed or have beer spilt on me by the drunk guys I'm not allowed to cut off, because the bride would throw a fit. I live in a 10 by 15 foot room with Bob, who almost always (if I'm not working with him that night) wakes me up at 3 a.m. when the bar closes. I sleep 6-7 hours a night, work 18 hour days, and soon, very soon, I won't be able to do it anymore.

There will be no more lakes. No more suntanning. No more wakeboarding, tubing, or kneeboarding. I won't go on long runs through the Wisconsin forests. No more three-dollar-pitchers of Killians and Blue Moons in Ripon, trips to Milwaukee music festivals, or the Ripon public library. I can't nick food from the four-star chef who works downstairs or have a peacock wake me up a seven in the morning. Watching my boss get absolutely hammered at the bar on Wednesdays will be over. Free liquor there too. I work a lot. A hell of a lot. 61.5 hours a week is only what I'm clocked in for, and when you live at a resort, you do more than what you're paid for. It's not even the busy season yet.

But I have a life worth getting up for, worth working towards. I'm exhausted, overworked, and in debt. Can't wait to get home and share my stories with all of you, especially you Sunny, my wedding date. It's a good life, it really is. Even if I always smell like bleach and captain morgan's.
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