All Goods End

I took a table with a women in her forties, a younger lady of yet undetermined age, and a young man in a wheelchair. The younger lady asks for a drink, to my shock, as I did not expect her to be of age. When I see she was born in 2001 I fake cringe.

–Doesn’t it upset you that the kids that were born in the early Two Thousands are now old enough to drink?– I ask the woman.

She laughs and agrees. I take a chance at flattery (and a larger tip) and tell her it was quite nice to bring her little sister for a drink. She laughs again, telling me that’s her youngest niece, daughter to her brother. I comment that the age difference can’t be that big. They deebate a while, and finally remember that her father is sixty, or sixty-one.

–Oh, I see, he’s…

And I stop dead in my tracks. I’m doing the math, you see.

–… a spring chickemn and I will not discuss it further!– I snap, still smiling, and leave with comical urgency that was only half faked. They fortunately caught the comedic bit, but I was a little mortified.

I’m 52. That’s single digit distance from this lady’s father.

Yikes.

I’ve had a hard time accepting middle age, ever since… well, I reached middle age. I enjoy making people laugh, I like goofing around, I don’t take myself too seriously, I like cartoons… In my head I’m basically still thirty. But every now and then, incidents like the one I told you above remind me that time’s a-ticking. Do you remember how you felt whe somebody told you they were sixty? Okay, gramps, see ya at the park, don’t forget Matlock. Until we start reaching that age.

This is especially true in my line of work. The average server is in their mid-twenties. I work with two hosts that are eighteen. They could be my kids!!! That of course leads to ya boy being seen as “tio Juan”. You know, the guy they look for advice… and finds out everything because most people will talk about their lives without paying too much attention because ugh, the old man? That’s how I learned that damn, people hook up a LOT in this business.

But that of course also comes with responsibilities. It is no longer cool to talk to a lady that was not even born when you were her age in a flirty way unless you have been friendly for a while or you don’t mind being unemployed. This happened to a coworker who said some lewd comments to a lady twenty years his junior. She was so upset she walked away that same day, and he was fired the next.

I really have a hard time believing people can talk to other human beings however way they want and think they’ll either enjoy it, feel flattered, or think it’s funny. Like, when you cat call a lady on the street, what do you expect? She’ll turn around and give you her number? Or you’re a middle-aged man with a dad bod. Do you really think you’re going to bang the twenty year old cheerleader? Or nineteen year old hostess, you creepy manager you?

And I’m raising a daughter, which has its own set of concerns, considering the state of men these days. Thank God for #MeToo, which if anything has made women more aware of red flags and men more aware of their behavior. (Responsible ones, in both cases, that is.)

But here’s what’s funny about that: D. told her mother the other day, Mom, I don’t like boys, I don’t like girls, I just want to be free and have fun”. On the one hand, I was a little relieved, thinking of how many sleepless nights I have been spared from. On the other, it made me wonder whether my girl will have the luck to be loved by another person, to become this wonderful thing that is a couple, but I shook it off and I assumed that if it’s in her cards, it will come when she’s ready and she wants it. If not, she will be happy either way.

(And then, I thought that if she never has a significant other, she’ll never have kids, so she won’t live through what her mom and I lived through, and hold on one goddamn second…)

And after all, isn’t that the end goal? To be happy? I can’t wait to reach my so called “golden age” –who knows what qualifies as that now– and be content and at peace. Maybe that’s what real happiness is: the moment you look around and realize, there’s nothing you really need. You truly have enough. You didn’t settle; you acheived.

I guess I really am old.

Sitting in the morning sun

My last post was written on our dining room table, staring into a crowded living room, a bustling avenue right outside our balcony. In a couple of hours I had to get ready for the ten-minute drive to work. I was tired, homesick, future uncertain.

This post began on that same table, but now it overlooks a backyard next to a dried up pond. Leia, into her fifth day of spaydomhood, snores on the matress we set up in the living room so she won’t go upstairs, where I hear Y. walking around and getting ready to leave. I type as I get ready to join her, to a destination I’ve forgotten, but I know we’re taking my car. My car. As in, I am paying for it with my money, and I use it almost exclusively. In fact, I’m writing this post at the dealership, giving Ozzie (that’s how I named the car) his first service.

Life has a way of changing.

Did I mention that all this happened –the new house, the new car, Leia’s spaying– in less than three months?

I’m not gonna lie, but this made me feel pretty darn overwhelmed for a minute. Where we live is called Davenport, a city some 20 miles away from where we lived. It reminds me of the so-called “satellite cities” near Caracas, mostly residential areas where people would commute to their jobs in the main city (think the relationship between New York and New Jersey, to a point). My trip to work went from ten minutes to between forty-eight and fifty-two. And sometimes I leave at midnight to come back the next morning. And in the worst twist of all, I’ve grown to hate Saturdays (I open, so I have to wake up at five so I can leave at seven) and love Mondays (my ONE day off).

But it’s my commute in my car, to our house. It is scary to have such a responsibility, but it is also something I am incredibly proud of. I got here with $200 in my pocket and we started life living in a single room with party-prone hosts. I felt so scared, so homesick, but I turned to inspiration from a very large source to get through.

Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson had seven dollars to his name when he was released by the Canadian Football League and before wrestling supra-stardom came calling. So yeah, I had started out better than the most electrifying man in sports entertainment, but I doubt I have even half his discipline. That’s where I credit Y. It is because she saved and toiled and starved for so long that we’re here. It is because she sees the man I sometimes doubt I am and makes him do things.

And even on days when I feel I’m not giving enough, she reminds me that we got here together.

Life has a way of changing, indeed… so far, for the better.

The gig is down

I think he’s the first non-Latino, non-Black Lyft driver I’ve had in over a year. And he had the dubious honor of picking me up from my first ever visit to the ER, thanks to the unholy meeting of my left pinkie and a knife. No, I don’t want to talk about it.

Peter (not his real name) told me had moved with his wife from upstate New York. “My two kids are in college, so I do this so I have extra money when they come over, so we can go to the parks or something”, he says. He was proud of the fact that he had been on time, because the GPS in his app had been given him trouble.”I’m glad I could find you”, he tells me. Makes two of us, buddy.

And it didn’t stop there. He had to be one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. He once took an old man from an airport to an appointment he had –even though he wasn’t active at the moment. He just couldn’t leave the old man to himself. He also helped another older gentleman adjust the GPS on his phone. It was impossible not to be touched from his stories. It also made me resentful about a couple of other drivers. One in particular.

On Christmas Eve 2022, the low here in Orlando was 28ºF. That’s -2.2ºC for the rest of the world. It was the coldest I ever been –and I hate the cold. So I left work around seven o’clock that day desperate to get home, not only to have Christmas dinner with the family, but to GTFO of the cold!

Problem was, it was seven o’clock on Christmas Eve. Not too many Lyft drivers on. And not too many willing to do a short trip. Seven –SEVEN– cancelled on me. No reason given –they got scheduled and suddenly “We’re finding you another driver”. (More on that in a minute.) Number eight finally seemed to be on his way. When he was two minutes away, he calls me. I miss the call because my supposedly touch-screen effective gloves did not work, so I have to take off the glove to call him. (Remember, two degrees Celsius below zero.) A Latino voice answers.

–Hi! I’m Juan, your rider.

–Sir, where are you?

I told him. I could start to feel my hand cracking from the cold. I hoped he would not take long.

–Sir, there’s an issue here. It tells me I’m picking up a woman. Are you scheduling for someone else?

–No, for myself. I had seen a glitch on the app, though. It’s Christmas Eve, after all, it must be flooded. But I assure you, my man, it’s me you’re picking up.

–Sir, I’m sorry, but this feels weird. I’m sorry but I’m going to have to cancel the ride.

I had been waiting for over an hour. My hand was starting to feel numb. I was exhausted, hungry, and homesick. He did NOT just say he was cancelling the damn ride. I immediately, with no shame, started begging.

—Hermano, I’m begging you not to do that. It’s just a glitch in the app. I’ve been stuck here for almost an hour. All I want to do is get home. Please don’t do this to me.

–I understand what you’re saying, bro, but I need to think about my own safety– he said for the first of at least five times. “Yo te entiendo lo que me dices, hermano, pero yo tengo que pensar en mi seguridad“, his Puertorrican accent getting thicker each time. –This is very weird, and I don’t feel safe.

I begged again. He refused, politely. I begged harder, on the verge of tears. He again declined, a little less politely. I begged one more time. He refused again with his stupid “Yo entiendo lo que me dices”, and my patience went up in a firey spew. I was well aware I was in my work uniform and people were close by, but the frostbite that finally showed up in my hand erased everything except the gutless asshole on the other side of the line and my own frustration.

I did not cuss him out, but my tone did. I said he was killing me and he was a miserable, inconsiderate soul and a poor human being. He huffed once demanding respect, and I shut him off saying that where’s my respect, of course you/re damn killing me, he was ditching me on Christmas Eve in the freezing cold after a ten-hour shift. “Don’t bother cancelling the ride, I’ll do it for you. Happy nothing. SIR”, I snarled. I hung up, but I saw he had already cancelled it. That made me even more furious; I was looking forward to putting my first one-star review, and I had been denied.

Not my proudest moment, but hey, I’m only human. I’m only sorry that I couldn’t cancel the ride and comment exactly how I felt, and that I couldn’t invite the guy who finally picked me up –Venezuelan like me– for dinner at our house, because he was all alone on Christmas Eve.

Goes to show, there’s all kinds. But damn, dude, wouldn’t you be a little more compassionate on Christmas Eve?!

I was there

My one day off winds down as I stare at my computer for a bit. Y. has gone off to bed, exhausted as she is, and D. is chatting with her friends a little too loud. She will of course come out and pretend she’s not sleepy, and then go to bed. I feel tired, and I know the snoring little ball of (short) fur on the couch will need walking in some eight hours and I should get to bed. But this called me. So I answered.

As I sat and stared, I remember the weekend. Back in Caracas, my family got together. A big part of my family. They all gathered at an aunt’s house where less pleasant memories finally died. My parents, my brother, and my sister-in-law, my two beautiful nephews whom I am yet to hold; they just turned two this past Friday. My one-hundred-and-one-year-old great-uncle. My cousin flew in from Mexico with her husband and their triplets, who are now tweens; when I first saw them in that house they were very active toddlers. Another cousin and her husband are there with their two daughters. The oldest, who was the ring bearer in my first wedding, is now a beautiful seventeen-year-old, and I tremble for her father. And of course, I see my parents, delighted as they are to have so many of their loved ones with them.

And I’m there. We’re there.

KEEP READING

Five and counting

Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire.
Jorge Luis Borges

We went shopping today, a rare day when all of us were off from our responsibilities and could spend it together. We went to the outlets near our home, and of course, I had to take a picture in front of the only restaurant that was there, now closed. Not going to lie, it was a strange moment, to see where this journey as an immigrant finally found a cushion now shut down. But it is Thanksgiving week, so I chose gratitude.

I look back at what I wrote about the experience, and I can’t help but smile at my innocence. Maybe I can even call it naiveté. It was clearly the work of someone who trusted people way more, that was clearly terrified of what he had done, upending his world like that. But then I see where I am now, and I can feel nothing but gratitude.

It’s been five years since we moved to Orlando, Y. from New York, me from Caracas. I can safely say it has been one hell of a ride, and we have come a long way since. I am about to embark on a new job adventure that I will tell you about when the time comes, I can actually start planning on buying my first car, and we have plans we could not have conceived of when we landed here. And we have a dog!

There have been weird moments, of course. Not two weeks ago, I was turning away from a table and a lady at it yelled at me “Server person!” twice. I turned to her, hiding how flabbergasted I was, and smiled and said “My name is Juan, ma’am”. Her response? “Oh, I’m never going to remember that”. There was the lady that insisted I replace the two –TWO– burnt shrimp in her bowl. There was the guy that handed me a fistful of quarters and said “Here’s your tip, friend, thank you”. There have also been hugs from kids, ladies that said their autistic daughter had the best birthday ever, families that give a little more because it was my birthday, and all the weird and wacky folks I have worked with.

Five years ago, I landed here not knowing what to expect beyond a LOT of work. I didn’t expect to start working at Universal Studios. I didn’t expect to meet cool musicians. I didn’t expect the best dog in the world. Along the way, I have managed to find my way out of some disasters, avoid others, and even mark up some wins. I have learned, maybe times forcibly, how to be a responsible adult with money, some twenty years too late. And it all started that day, in that restaurant. (Ok, a little earlier, but the actual start was at that restaurant.

On this day, I am so grateful for the opportunities I have had in this country. The little things I have done, the not-so-little things, what I’ve seen, who I’ve met, what I’ve done. Here’s to many more adventures, especially in this new chapter of my life, which I hope I may see those who honor me with their visits here, for many years to come.

We will rise. Somehow

Photo by Rafael Rex Felisilda on Unsplash

She told me she was tired of living in and out of hotels. That she wants to work enough to find a more stable place, and to buy a car, cheap as it may be. She’s been living like this for too long, she says. I’m surprised she can be this upbeat still, but I don’t say anything.

He’s been living in a hotel for a couple of months with his girlfriend. Who has… issues. So if he’s going to drink he has to do it before he gets home. I think I now understand why he’s so dour most of the time, and yet when he’s not working he can actually be funny. To the point that I want to tell the others, who I know don’t like him, to give him a chance.

But of course, I say nothing. Because in my head, I have the right to complain about my own situation. So I let them complain about theirs. But here’s the thing: my co-workers have a right to complain. I don’t.

I’m pretty sure that I’ve discussed my worries about depression in this blog. Heck, you tell me what good is a personal blog if you can’t vent to the Internet about personal matters. But after a year in therapy, no diagnosis of depression, whole lotta tears shed, and many miles of soul searching, it would be almost disrespectful to think I have it. I’m anxious and worried. Still valid, yes, but not depressed. This means I have to reevaluate how I deal with things.

Keep reading…

Many times I’ve said that I lived so many years as a twentysomething trapped in a forty-year-old, I was afraid that coming out into the world would be a monumental clash. I was right; I left Caracas and landed in the States having to live as an actual adult. You know, pay rent, buy groceries, see a doctor, look out for my health and the ones that live with me. When I hit rough patches, I tend to crawl into myself, lock the door, and sometimes blow things up more than usual. My regular trigger is slow season at work; being unable to meet my debts is a constant scare. You’d think I’d prepare for these months and ride them out or something.

I still try to validate those feelings, don’t get me wrong. Many of the evils in the world are because men still struggle to show their true feelings. But I also try to see things in their fair proportions. Mostly, I remember I don’t have to deal with my stress alone. I have a wonderful, wonderful woman beside me that has given me so much, and is willing to help me no matter what. We have merged into a team to get each other out of dark places and support each other in every way you can imagine. That right there is a massive plus on my side.

Also, we have a roof over our heads. We both have jobs (hers a little more reliable, but still). I’m a US citizen, she’s a legal resident. We both speak the language. We are both considered good people.

So I go back to the complaining part. I read somewhere that I shouldn’t complain about anything I’m not willing to do take on. And it’s true. I just need to remember that this isn’t a sprint or a marathon. It’s a chess game. Because in a marathon there is only one track, one way. In a chess game, there is a vast number of moves that you can do to reach your objective. And even if you are defeated in one game, you can always learn, hone your skills, and try again. Until the final match, which we all play in the end. But death isn’t a defeat. Only the end. The real defeat is not having lived to your full potential, achieved your dreams, or reached your goals.

My coworkers are good people. I do hope their situation improves over time. And I am working to reach mine.

The ‘rona diaries: random ramblings from the COVID room

Here’s my second bout in COVID land. Much milder, truly just felt like a cold, but came in one of the worst moments: the end of summer, when more people are going to the restaurant. I’m also bored outta my mind and miss the touch of my lady. So, is it worse than the first time? No. But is it, though? Yes. Yes, it is.

A surprise that came this time around was that I genuinely miss my job. I have fun there, and the money’s good (most of the time). And they have made me feel important. I don’t yet feel the king I was at Bahama Breeze, but it’s getting there.

And yet… But more on that some other day.

It’s how much I miss my wife that’s truly maddening. A couple of weeks ago she was the one sick, so I had to move to the living room. (She has now discovered yet another reason to hate the couch.) It sucks sleeping separately, sucks not being able to go out together, sucks not even being able to sit and talk without a mask. There it hit me: we are middle-aged people who have been together for five years (after three years long distance) and we still act like we’re twentysomethings in a first relationship. I feel so blessed to have that kind of relationship.

It is something that was previously absent in other relationships I had. That feeling of camaraderie, that we shared not only common tastes but common goals. We are so different in many things, but we learn to navigate those differences. Yes, we exasperate each other in certain things, but we never let that fester, let alone interfere in what we want.

And what we want has been up to some pretty difficult obstacles right now. It’s inflation, it’s the market, it’s less job opportunities. But here we are, making plans and decisions to avoid those obstacles, deal with them when they arrive.

In the mean time… COVId, get the f*** outta my house.

The smile bearer

We had this cartoon made of her a couple of weeks ago.

My last posts have not been what you might call happy. I was going through some rough patches in my life, some demons in my head that refused to let go. But here’s the thing about demons: they feed on whatever bad energy you give them. Yes, sometimes it’s not enough to just say “I’m not going to bring myself down today”; things have to actually happen so you can feel better. And things did happen this week that made me feel a whole lot better. But there’s one thing in my life that has always brought me a smile no matter what happens: my dog.

A week before my birthday last July, Y. took D. to an undisclosed location. I remember her telling me that she had to do something about my birthday and something else. I love surprises, and I trust her unquestionably, so I didn’t ask anything. I just took my alone time in stride. So rare, so precious.

About two hours and change later, they came back, carrying a hastily wrapped box. “It’s a rare book”, she tells me. I knew it wasn’t a book, but believe you me, I would’ve expected a new car before what I found in that box. I sort of push apart the papers and, poking my hand in, I say, “I feel something warm”. And then a little head poked up. I’d like to say I was instantly enthralled, but like everything else these days, there’s evidence of what really happened that day.

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A post shared by Juan Carlo Rodríguez (@jaycer17)

I can tell you what happened as I saw this little nine-week-old puppy explore the house, sniffing along, and then slowly but surely claiming our hearts as her own: I was terrified. It was such a huge responsibility. The vet bills, the food, the toys, the bed, and a long et cetera. I was looking forward to having a dog, but I was thinking when we moved to our own house, have better economic conditions, etc.

But you try looking into those eyes and not commit to anything. Anything.

We had to name her Leia. This is a *Star Wars* family above all.

Leia is the second dog I’ve had in my life, and she comes under much better conditions than my first one. That was Baloo, a (probable) Schnauzer-Jack Russell mix that I had after a friend’s dog gave birth to three puppies. I had just gotten married, and it was not going well, as almost everybody around me said it would go. I was working from home, spent a lot of time by myself, and was very, very sad most of the time. So a dog was almost mandatory. (Actually therapy, but c’mon, a dog.)

Baloo had ten times the energy Leia has. He barked more, shed more hair, and was a nipper. He was also such a rock during those months. One day I was feeling everything bad happening around me like a ton of bricks, so I start playing with him. He must have been four months old, and as we play he suddenly gets on me, grabs my nose, and bites —hard. I feel blood gushing out, and I am furious. I of course do not strike him, but I immediately get up and scold him. Wait, no, that’s not true — I scream at him. He looks at me absolutely terrified, knows he did a bad thing. I storm off and lock myself into the bedroom and sit on the bed, calming myself down. Five minutes later I hear the scratches on the door –“Daddyyyy… I’m sorryyyyy…”

I come out and he is so thrilled, like he hasn’t seen me in a while. But I say one “NO!” and he sits back. I felt miserable, so miserable. I just walked to the couch, sat down, started to sob and weep. I even slid down, bawling, covering my eyes and mouth lest the neighbors got concerned. And then I felt Baloo on my lap. He poked my hands off, and started licking my tears. Then he didn’t say a word, just curled up in my lap, and was just… there for me. And I felt better.

That’s what dogs do. And I think any dog owner will agree (not to mention science). Having a dog is having your very own smile dispenser right there. Because even if they do a mess, they have these faces that beg you not to get mad at them –and they succeed. They are the purest form of love and joy you can imagine. They actively seek you out to play or just cuddle. There’s always that old story that says that if you lock up a child and a dog in the trunk of a car, it will be the dog who will be overjoyed to see you when you open the trunk. And I believe in this quote (wrongly attributed to actor Bill Murray, but the man still has a very touching dog story):

I’m suspicious of people who don’t like dogs, but I trust a dog when it doesn’t like a person.

As I write this, Leia is just sitting at my feet. She occasionally looks up at me, raises her little paw so I pay more attention to her. She’s been up with us since 4 am, in a very relaxed mood. She likes to get in bed with us, cuddle, and then go for a walk. She loves her toys, especially the squeaky ones. And she loves us. Even D., who is not known for her gentle touch. But Leia will actively look for her to play. Loves to wake her up to school. She’s a companion, she’s a friend, she’s another daughter. She’s our dog, and I am so blessed to have her in my life.

This is one of our favorite things to do.

You will find it all around you

“Oh really? What do you write?”, Mic asked me, in that quiet rolling-thunder of a voice he has.

We’re sitting rolling silverware as we wait for the day to start. It’s my third week at the new job, and one of the biggest contrasts is that I’m no longer the oldest server on staff. Heck, I’ve been demoted to third. I have the feeling Mic is the new champion, with his cool lock of white hair (he loves that I call me, him, and Allen, nine years my senior, the Silver Squad).

We’ve been making small talk for a while, and he tells me he’s thankful he doesn’t worry about money anymore, that he takes “what the Universe sends me”. I tell him I wish I could be like that, that it’s one of the reasons I want to go back to working nights (more money), and also that I contribute to a news site as a journalist, and that I want to continue writing.

“Short stories, mostly”, I answer, sheepishly, not even bothering to add the “I hope to publish a book this year” part that I’ve been saying for the past three years.

“Oh nice. I’m a playwright myself”, he says. “I had a piece of mine open in Broadway once”.

And immediately, Mic is 47% more interesting. And I am once again struck by the contrast of the people I am encountering in this job. The general manager used to be a theater actor as well, and is a trained tap dancer, whose heroes are Sammy Davis, Jr., and Gregory Hines (and he once told me got to dance in front of Hines himself). One of the hostesses quit because she’s going back to art school, and showed me some of her amazing drawings. And now Mic just tells me he’s a playwright. And got to narrate a short film that got played in theaters (you can watch it here). And when he was a young theater actor he auditioned in front of… Neil Simon?!

“I was doing my part, and all of a sudden I hear him start talking”, Mic told me. “So I assume that’s it, I didn’t get it. So I say thank you very much, and I start getting off the stage. But Neil says ‘Hey kid, where are you going?’ And he tells me to keep going. Then there was this silence, and again I go thank you very much, and he goes, ‘What is it with this kid? Where are you going?’ He did see something, and he called me back five times, even gave me some direction. I didn’t end up getting the part, but can you imagine the honor?”

Can I imagine touching the hem of Jesus’ robe and then walking away? Hmm, can’t say I have, brother.

Mic lives with his wife of several years in a mobile home which is going through a bathroom renovation. (This is the type of home you can lift into a flatbed and move somewhere else.) From what he describes, it’s a simple life, and he seems pretty content. You would never guess he auditioned and nearly got to work with one of theater’s greatest playwrights. I didn’t ask him how he wounded up as a server again –shouldn’t it be the other way around, as in, you’re a server wanting to be a playwright, a la Jonathan Larsen?– but I didn’t need to. The stories are all different, but one thing remains: sometimes life throws you a curve ball and you catch it as best you can. And it throws different curves to different people.

Late that same day, another server, Kierra, told me this weird, wonderful thing that had happened to her. Her family was in line at Walmart to pay for a 40-inch TV that she had got for her young son. They had saved for a while to get it, and it had been on sale for a couple of hundred dollars. A woman behind them, in nurse scrubs, noticed it and asked if it had been on sale. Yes it had been, they said. “Would you mind if I go in front of you?”, she asked then. They thought it was weird, bit she had only one item, so they let her. And they were absolutely floored when the lady told the cashier, “I would like to pay for their purchases, please”.

Of course Kierra’s family couldn’t believe it, and tried to say it was OK, no need, but she insisted. “I’ve just had a miracle happen to me at the hospital, and I intend to spread the joy”, she said. I get goosebumps thinking about it. Kierra told me she’s trying to locate her so they could at least send her flowers, but I’m sure the lady doesn’t need them.

I find these stories so encouraging. They make me think that good surrounds me even when lousy things happen. It’s just a reminder that good and bad are constantly present, and night always turns into day. Yes, I’m going through some very hard times right now, but I know they will end. And I have learned valuable lessons in this hard period, and I have traced a clear objective. It just tells me that I have to get up and start doing the things that make me feel good, that will lead me towards good, and not feel sorry for myself.

Thanks Mic and Kierra for inspiring me to write this. And to keep on writing.

Tell Elsa she’s on in five

Syahmir, CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Among the hundreds of t-shirts I own, I have two (and counting) that make fun of the adult life. My newest favorite shows a one-star review to “adulting”, with the mandatory “would not recommend”. And it’s become almost a mantra. Except when I can’t ignore it.

Do we go over again how hard this year has been? Nah, why would be. Heck, just by writing those words I’m risking to alienate most of you fine readers. So let’s just cap off and say, the last month has been kind of hard. Business has slowed down in the restaurant, and people have gotten cheap. Cheap-er, I should say, because Black Friday sapped their money like a lamprey on a salmon’s vein. So money has been tight in the house, like most Decembers. Add the stress that I talked about in my last post, and well, Holiday cheer is not abundant in Casa Rodriguez.

The solution would make my t-shirts cry: a little bit of “adulting”.

If there is one thing with which I have had problems, it’s letting go. Like any good man, I wear clothes till they either break or can’t be folded, or are coming apart like ancient papyrus exposed to the sun. That especially applies to things that entertain me or educate me. And magazines are a big part of that. I have always been a magazine reader, and still am. It’s a reason why my Pocket account is overrun with online magazine articles that I swear I’m going to get to any moment now. (A quick check into my account reveals that the oldest article I saved that i can still read is from 2012, thank you.)

So today I sat down and canceled my only two magazine subscriptions, Wired and National Geographic. They were not that expensive, and the NatGeo was digital only, but I haven’t read any issue of either magazine in detail since I started the subscription. It was money not well invested if I didn’t consume them in their entirety. So I finally grew up and hit “Cancel Subscription”.

I’m not gonna lie –it hurt. I felt like it was denying myself of the pleasure of knowledge, of reading excellent writing, of getting my brain challenged.

And then I got a ping on my phone. “Congratulations! You have paid back 14% of your debt!”

Fourteen percent? Doesn’t seem much. But hey, it means I’m 14% closer to having that debt off my back. It also means I haven’t missed a single payment. It also means I have treated this debt with the seriousness of… wait for it… an adult.

We always put ourselves under so much pressure. We need to be more productive, we fight against FOMO, we have to have better things, bigger things, shinier things. But why? To use a self-help cliché, nobody’s last words were ever “I wish I had worked harder”. Because, it turns out, we worked too hard.

But that doesn’t mean we don’t, as the late artist Amy Krouse Rosenthal once tweeted, pay attention to what we pay attention to. Life is all about that juggling act, and you have to pay attention to all those balls in the air. Your job, your family, your hobbies, your likes, your loves, your hates. They all have to stay up, somehow… until you realize that there’s another ball coming. Then you realize, with a little anguish, that you either try to juggle them all, going beyond your limits, and risk dropping them all… or you choose which one to let go.

That doesn’t mean that, down the line, you’ll get better and be able to juggle a massive amount of balls in the air. But that doesn’t come all at once. It comes after a lot of practice and patience. Of careful planning on when you’re going to practice. On how you’ll challenge yourself to do tricks, look more graceful.

But it all comes down to learning when to let go.

Goodbye, my beloved magazines. I’ll see you again down the road. (And in the meantime, if I want a single issue, there’s always Zinio.)