Full disclosure: I'm at my wit's end.
Upon my return from The Land Down Under, a.k.a The Land of Enchantment, a.k.a The Land of Perfect Weather, a.k.a The Land Where Katie Danced On A Stage In The Middle of a Night Club - I have deduced 3 things:
1) The Texas heat can kiss my recently-sculpted ass.
2) I underestimated just how much I missed Chipotle and Panera Bread.
3) I hate the transition.
That is to say, I hate the transition from college to adulthood. It's frustrating, indefinite, unreliable and belittling. I imagine that is what Purgatory would feel like; not too fiery hot, not too cloudy/golden/heavenly - but juuuuust annoying.
Going to Australia for 6 months was, by far, one of the best decisions of my life. The things I experienced, the memories I made, the lessons revealed to me by God - all things I would never want to give up. Not even for a lifetime supply of Chipotle burritos.
However, going into my adventure - I knew it had to end. Hoorah for realism. I knew I had to come home and catch up to everyone who had already landed jobs or internships or were handed down daddy's multi-billion dollar company.
So! Where does this bit of bitching and moaning leave me? Stuck between an 8oz sirloin and a treadmill. I'm [arguably] gainfully employed at Outback Steakhouse (yep, STILL) and 24 Hour Fitness. I'm working 2 part time jobs in order to catch me back up to speed financially. In doing this, I'm hoping to graduate from adulthood purgatory to adulthood heaven come November. Once that brisk month approaches, I'll hopefully be living on my own in Austin with a career, a roommate and a boyfriend right around the corner. Until then, I will endure the unstable income, the management staff who think I have rocks for brains, and the coworkers who will have liver transplants at 32.
But despite the first-world pain that I'm forced to survive, I'm excited for the after-purgatory-life. And really, really, really eager to get there. Don't tell anybody, though. I wouldn't be able to show my face in public if people knew I were thankful for any income at all, grateful for a surprisingly pleasant workplace, and glad I get to take home nightly a fist full of ridiculous stories about the clowns I work with.
In the mean time, everyone console Gerry. The next few months for him will be riddled with earfulls of stress-related vent sessions and financial complaints. Thank God for patient boyfriends.
Bye, I'm going to eat Chipotle.