I'm supposed to be at a friends birthday drinks right now. Well, two friends actually. One on either side of the city. But instead I stand typing from the front desk of...wait for it....my job. Yes, in the spirit of this new year/ new me caper, I took heed. Now it may very well have been more entertaining, at least for blogging purposes, to have succumbed to the perilous ways of hospo-crapity. I'm sure my tale-tellings of booze, bad moods and bitch slaps to drunk hoons across the bar would've been totally hilarious. Totally. Hilarious.
But I met myself halfway. I just could not concede to don the apron and bar boots. I think I'm scarred by the last pair, which became so well worn that the sole split from the toe and started flapping at me like a scathing tongue hissing 'Sucked in Ryan, you're so far from getting your shit together that you're still here scrubbing bar scunder and what's that in your hair..the remnants of cock-sucking cowboy slop? Mmmm. Tasty'.
So here I am back in my old safe-haven. The gym. I do recall the last shift I had here, some 6 months ago in the peak of winter. I remember stripping myself of the garish black uniform like I was unleashed of chains, thinking, this is it. I am NEVER appearing on the payroll of a fitness club again. Oh, the bitter taste of my foot as it rams itself in my mouth. Still, better than the taste of my foot if it were covered in bar fungus from split shoe.
Now the gym is not a bad place to be. In fact, it is a great place to be. I am a huge advocate of healthy living, hence my inspiration for becoming a Personal Trainer as a 'back up' to my creative pursuits. Albeit another $4500 spent on 'you can become a PT in a flash' qualifications. And another $2500 spent on naive business schemes (thank you Fitness First). However, this is not something I regret and I have had some amazingly inspirational experiences and clients because of it, my current one included.
Point is, every time I have worked in a gym, and this will be my 6th crack, it has served as a reminder of where I'm not...singing and dancing (or some version of) my way to the top. Now I need not point out that a fitness club has a remarkable way of sapping every last ounce of energy out of one. Hell, people walk in looking ready to take on the world (in the form of a spin bike) and leave looking like they've had said spin-bike impaled up their nether-region with all life force left on the floor! So it's no wonder that there is a palpable energy transaction at play. As an employee, perhaps it's the 5 x 4.45am alarm bells. Or a continuous song cycle of Ke$ha (dollar sign..seriously?), Britney and Boy Bands. Perhaps if it were Babs, Bette and Liza life would've been a little more cabaret. But it was all sweat, smells, and sounds that soon became spiritually violating.
I take full accountability though. It had nothing to do with the gym itself, and everything to do with me. I tend to go a little hell-for-leather on the job front. The 'yes' girl. Yes, I'll do that shift. Yes, I'll stay back. Yes, I'll work 15 days in a row til I wake up with eyes so bloodshot that I could very well have punched cones for breakfast and become so highly strung that I burst into tears when someone informs me that the soap dispenser is out. And in all of this consumption I loose, or I should say, have lost sight of the bigger picture. Lord knows it's common to us all, especially we arty folk. Sometimes we are fortunate enough to make a buck doing what we love. Other times, we just have to suck it up, knowing that the worst will pass and that we are on some path, however skewed, to our ideal destination. I have an exceptionally talented friend who is a singer/ song-writer. I'm hearing his music everywhere and reading about the fruits of his labours via his award nominations, concert appearances and radio interviews. To me, he's made it. Yet he still has a job as a dish-pig in a Surry Hills cafe. Case in point.
So here I am at the gym. Ready for round 6. I've left the runners at home though, and am instead behind the reception desk, where I can...you've guessed it, write. See, there is method in the madness. Something feels different this time. I know that I am not throwing my soul into a plight I am far from passionate about. Rather, I am doing what I need to do to support the bigger picture. Combined with all my other ventures, I'm on my way to busting my moulah-making goals. More importantly, I'm off the crutch that was *shudders again* Centrelink. I will admit, it wasn't easy to pick up the phone and ask for my old gym job back. Especially as when I left last time it was for a 'glamorous' Theatre job. Seriously, Theatre and Education is totally glam. But the eye is on the prize baby. I probably could have sat around for the next few weeks waiting for work to pick up, bu there is no rest for the wicked and wicked I seem to be, well, according to *insert list of debt collectors here*.
Speaking of work picking up, the diary is indeed filling up with all things wonderfully creative as the month unfolds. As this is a blog dedicated to confessions, and for the most part all you've done is listen to the dirty ones, I may as well take the liberty of declaring some positive ones in conclusion. In the coming weeks I have an array of gigs including a film, some fun presenting and voiceover escapades and a weekend away where I get paid to chat and look pretty. She's become an escort! I hear you cry. Close, but no cigar. (Needless to say though, the thought has crossed my mind). Ten points to me. This stuff makes me happy.
But for now, I shall be content and resolved in my few stable shifts a week here at the gym. I'm catching up with old friends, in a positive industry and I'm bloody thankful that I'm getting home at a reasonable hour sans cock-sucking cowboy slop. And as a bonus.... I can while away these reception hours with my musings.
Oh, and pay my rent. Score!
No comments:
Post a Comment