It's been a week. Exactly seven days, give or take a few hours, since I wrecked my car. My fault, I know. Not much I can say about going too fast on 512, home of the Puyallup demolition derby. I was headed toward the Fair and everyone else was headed to Sumner.
If I hadn't froze. If I'd had faster reflexes. If I'd just started out at a different time, or decided against taking a part-time job. I wanted to get my kid a birthday present. Something nice. And the Fair was an easy fifteen days, with a start and end time. No commitments. I blogged when I got home, all depressed and hurting. No car, no money. Dependent on my kid for a ride. No sick days.
I once asked Luke, "If I'm so smart, why do I have a crappy, go-nowhere job?" And he said, "It's not about how smart you are. It's about life choices."
I wouldn't trade my kids for the world, but sometimes the only thing in your corner is pigheadedness, and I have that in spades. I applied everywhere. For all the jobs I didn't want. I went back to school to escape restaurants, but the world--or at least "this" world, doesn't need another entry-level accountant. On the other hand, it does need cooks, and a good line cook is like gold. A solid, kick-ass grill is ruby-studded platinum.
My accident was on Tuesday. I had a new job on Thursday. Six weeks of vacation. Paid holidays. Forty five guaranteed hours every single week. I've doubled up, transitioning out of my old job, and it hurts. It's been a long time since I've played Superman.