I've Been Afraid of Changing

Today is big. By the time you read this, I'll probably be out on open the road, readying myself for the tedious task that is unpacking all of my stuff in a new house. Either that or I'll be 50 and too senile to remember I ever had a blog. I never know if this post is going to be more popular in the present or sometime in the future when people are wondering what could have possibly happened to me. And yes, I plan to go senile early. The point is, I'm moving. If you know me at all, you know I'm not well suited for such a task. I'm a homebody. I like to find somewhere I'm comfortable and stay there. Don't even get me started about staying at someone else's house for just a night. I'm much too masculine for it to be homesickness, so we'll just call it a nervousness for unfamiliar beds. And bathrooms. And sometimes other people in general.

Wow, how I've ever made a single friend is beyond me. Let's not even discuss the whole "surviving college" thing.

Getting back on topic, I start a new job Monday. It'll be my first paid work since last May. I'll finally have income to support my DVD collection. Not that it takes money to keep DVDs I already have or anything. It just takes money for it to expand, and DVD collections, like children, need to grow. DVD collections seem infinitely more useful than children, however, but that's just a post for a whole other time.

I'm scared of this job. I'll be a server at a pretty fast-paced restaurant. Considering that I spent a good amount of my life battling a crippling amount of shyness, I don't see how this will be a good fit. Especially if the majority of my money is based on how much strangers like me. I make fantastic third impressions; the first two are really a toss-up.

That didn't stop me from taking the job though, for reasons that are beyond me (not really, I want money). Yeah, I might be awful at it. Yeah, I could come home every day after work too exhausted to do anything else. Yeah, I could get fired.

But I could also surprise myself. I could make enough money to live and write as much as I want on the side. I could not feel bad when I went out to dinner because that ninety-nine cent cheeseburger wouldn't completely break the bank. And I could have that new experience, one of those exciting, terrifying experiences that I don't think I've had enough of lately.

That might be worth this job alone. Plus, as my good friend Michael (no relation) pointed out, what writer hasn't worked as a waiter at some point in his life?