In a Relationship with My Integrity
If you follow me on Instagram, then you know that I recently started working as a hostess at True Food Kitchen.
One, it’s my favorite restaurant. Two, I’ve always been intrigued by working in the hospitality industry. Three, my last few months as a freelancer have been some of my most challenging months to date.
In regard to point two, my virginity as a restaurant worker has always bothered me. I feel like there is some proverbial rite of passage in working as a hostess or server. I’d argue the same about jobs in retail (thank you, lululemon). So, as much as doubles on Saturdays can be a doozy, I am inspired by my own ability to check yet another thing off of my life goals list.
Plus, I love branding. I love business. Working for a company that I admire – no matter my title – allows me to experience how that company shows up to onboard and nurture its employees. It also allows me to study how that company exists inside its community. I’m fascinated by the complexity of both the former and latter.
Also, real talk. Coordinating the flow of one of the highest grossing restaurants in Cherry Creek, which is arguably the richest pocket of Denver, is no small feat. The competitor inside me is openly embracing the challenge. But I can’t recall the last time I’ve been filled with so much humility.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe we need to intentionally put ourselves in positions of humility every once in a while. To remember what newness feels like. To remind ourselves that we’re alive.
To use a Stephanie-appropriate metaphor, it’s a lot like rock climbing. The constant calculation of walk-ins, reservations, and table configurations on top of server sections on top of having to tell hungry people there’s a 45-minute wait (and then being forced to explain that the patio isn’t a reservable part of the restaurant). Plus, bathroom checks. All while smiling. Do not forget the smiling. One slip, and I might as well be free-falling down a cliff in El Dorado Canyon.
Only, I’d take the cliff-falling over letting down my True Food team any day of the week. Because the downhill plummet only has the potential to hurt me. Letting down other people who are counting on me to lead elicits a pain inside me of epic proportions.
Ironically, that’s the feeling I’ve been missing as a freelancer living alone in a travel trailer for the last year. The responsibility of carrying others. And the lightness of also being carried. Teamwork. My bones have ached for these adjectives.
In regard to point three, I could very well write an entire book. But, in a rather obvious statement, freelancing guarantees zero level of consistent income. I’ve been fortunate enough to have some really amazing months. And then, without warning, this summer took it upon itself to knock down my ego a few notches.
BRING IT ON, I had screamed.
In hindsight, Summer may have responded better to a whisper. But alas, she’s over. I’m here. Still standing. And the moral of the story is that making minimum wage consistently felt a hell of a lot better than the possibility of making nothing at all.
And, in the same spirit, I’ve been applying to other jobs, too. Not to neglect my freelance business, but rather to put myself out into the market with the aspiration of finding something that will give me the levels of teamwork, consistency, freedom, and responsibility that I know make me the best professional version of myself.
I’d also like to alleviate some brain space to devote more of my time to writing and speaking. Right now, the multiple hats that I’m wearing as a freelancer force me into a constant state of decision-making. Those decisions, which currently determine my livelihood, take away from energy that I could potentially allocate to pursuing more of my life passions.
So, yes, I’ve been drowning in resume submissions and denial emails. Because, if you didn’t know, the job market is a real bitch at the moment. I’d very much liken it to online dating. Only, no one ever swipes right. Or they do and then leave you on read without so much as a stock reply.
Hello, over here! I match all your requirements! Can you please acknowledge my existence and, at the very least, send me one of those stupid emails about how you’ve chosen to move forward with other “more qualified” candidates?!
Am I yelling at a potential employer or another emotionally unavailable man? We don’t know.
In a shocking turn of events, I got an interview last week with a company that seemed to have a really cool culture. They sell technology solutions. They needed a marketing manager. While I knew nothing about Kubernetes and containerization, I really felt like my ability to articulate to the layman about anything imaginable would be my most favorable selling point.
Spoiler alert. I got denied.
Yes. I got denied. Again.
It was a nice denial. Like one of those “let’s be friends” speeches. I hear about how great I am for about a paragraph before they insert the dagger at the end that I don’t have enough experience with high-level technology terminology.
“I really do like you, but I’m just not ready.”
And I broke.
Well, I faked my smile for a five-hour shift at the restaurant. And then I broke.
Because I had spent the morning at Denver Startup Week, basking in the glow of entrepreneurs who spoke directly to my mantra of never settling. I got drunk on their words about expanding dreams as needed to maneuver hurdles. And, while enveloped by this energy, I finalized my own panel to present at Boise Startup Week. In addition, I received an email from Alt Summit about my speech topic – lessons I learned while living on the road – making it to the second round of potential TEDtalk-style showcases (by the way, my heart nearly burst from all of you who voted for me here).
Then, within minutes, I got that rejection email and lost the security of a prospective financial safety net at a company that actually intrigued me.
High highs. Low lows.
And I broke.
I can count the times on one hand that I’ve called my dad crying. And, that night after driving the 3.6 miles home from True Food, I spent the better part of an hour sitting in my car inside my new parking garage of the dream apartment I decided to rent without any source of guaranteed income stuttering through a stream of uncontrollable tears.
What he said: “Well, sweetie, it’s not easy when you don’t have a partner to help you.”
What I heard: “You know, Steph, if you had a man, it would be much more financially responsible to take these risks.”
The intent of his message probably lies somewhere in the middle. And I don’t care. I still hate it. Because, one, I will never choose partnership as my business backup plan. I will never choose partnership as any sort of premeditated plan, period. And two, don’t think that I don’t replay that thought – the one about life feeling lighter when accompanied by another person – in my head every single day.
Yes, Dad, having someone would make all of this shit a hell of a lot easier. But my absence of partnership is not for a lack of trying. And I’m not interested in just anybody. And I’m most certainly not on an independence power trip, but I’ll do this alone if alone is my only option.
Basically, it’s been a few days and his words are still stinging.
Because I don’t need a man. I want a man because I’ve done the work to know exactly what I bring to the table. I’m fully aware of my belief in and definition of interdependent partnership. And I’ve invested in myself to such a degree that I simply cannot be content with settling.
Here’s the part in the story where I confess the second layer of my emotional breakdown. I’ve been settling.
The weight of the entire world has felt so immense on my shoulders as of late that I’ve sacrificed my integrity as it pertains to romance. And I’ve been lying to myself in an effort to just be okay.
For starters, I’ve essentially stopped dating, which happens to be the positive part of the story. Well, maybe it deserves more neutrality. Because it’s simply a byproduct of my current self-absorption for survival. I am servicing my most immediate needs, which consumes all energy stores that would generally be available to give attention to another human. It’s my present life. A season. It is neither good nor bad.
However, the one male who has managed to attract my attention in the last few months is the reason I am out of integrity. He doesn’t even deserve a nickname at this point because he is so undeniably uninterested in putting me on any type of priority list. In fact, his long line of excuses is altogether embarrassing.
Yeah, I’m getting my haircut, too, and can’t hang out tonight.
But here I am. Excusing the excuses. Just holding all the space (as I outlined here) with the ignorant notion that the holding of the space will eventually make him choose me.
Because I’m tired.
I’m tired of living life inside an interview. Job hunting. Dating. A constant evaluation of my skill set. This feeling like I must always be on. A nagging ache that I am either too much or not enough. I’m tired of always making breakfast by myself. I’m tired of seeing couples constantly come into the restaurant and wondering how two people even like each other “like that” anymore. I’m tired of my own cynicism. I’m even more tired of the fact that I can’t find a reason to shut down my cynicism.
And I’m going to take some liberties here to decode the female mind as it pertains to emotionally unavailable men.
If we could just prove to them that we’re not an extension of their ex-girlfriends. If they would just take the time to discover the nuances of how much richer our laughs are when we’re near them than when we’re with the rest of the world. If they really understood how their names in our iPhone notifications bring a smile to our faces. Then.
The lightness.
The problem is that these things all feel so heavy now. Because, again, I was showing up for a man. But I wasn’t showing up for myself. And, in a relationship, this is okay. I’d argue that it’s necessary for growth. It builds trust. It’s why we enter partnership. But, in relationship, we do it with the understood knowledge that the other would – and will – reciprocate as needed.
I sacrificed my integrity and my needs without any inkling of a promise for a return. Because he likes to use me as an audience for his Snapchat stories, and I would literally not even define us as friends. Because he couldn’t even take an hour out of his week to help me put my entertainment center together.
*sigh*
So, I was again forced to find my words and speak my truth.
“Hey, a couple months ago we agreed that I’d let you know when I’d reached my boundary with your odd hours and last-minute hangouts. I’ve spent the last few days in the stark realization that I’m currently out of integrity with myself as it pertains to our relationship.”
[insert more words here]
“At this point, I need to prioritize how I’m feeling with the understanding that I’m putting unrealistic expectations on our time together. I just ask that you respect my time and space and remove me from your message rotation.”
And, of course, he responded with how I’m intriguing and eloquent and inspiring. And how he really wanted to come over and help me put together my furniture.
Wait, what?! When?! Around Thanksgiving?! The box has been collecting dust in my hallway for over a week when I initially asked for assistance.
Then he apologized for his emotional unavailability.
And now I’m more tired.
All I wanted was action. And I am not too much for expecting that a man wants to be seen with me in public. I am not too much for desiring to explore our similar interests in a shared space. I am not too much. It was simply too much for him.
I repeat, it was simply too much for him. Not me. It.
And, silly me, I went so far as to extend another olive branch.
*sends picture of unfinished entertainment center*
Me: “You want to put together the furniture? Here. Help yourself.”
Him: “Is that a half-invite over that I’m not supposed to take?”
Me: “No, it’s an actual ‘help yourself.’”
And I thought he might actually do it. For another split second, I existed inside all of the optimistic assumptions. Because he made all the implications that he’d be walking down the street to meet my doorman and make his way up my elevator. Until his lackluster punctuality forced my sarcasm to ask him if he was Army crawling.
Him: “Yeah, into bed.”
No response. At this point, there is no appropriate response.
Because there is still so much left to de-code. Too much. And, right now, I can barely carry myself without that added weight strapped so tightly to my back. I used my words to reclaim my brain space. I empowered myself to choose all of me. I sharpened my voice to continue down my path of never settling. And he heard it. He heard it. And then he toyed with my one request. The one where I asked that we exist on my terms, too.
Request denied. Return to sender.
And I cannot cry wolf with those words that I painstakingly strung together. The words that gave life to my hurting heart. The words that said, “I need someone to be excited about me.”
So, I vow to never respond to another man’s Snaps showcasing his lackluster chef skills. I do not care about any man’s ability to make over-easy eggs unless he’s consistently making them with me after morning sex.
I know I can’t control Corporate America. But, this. I can control how I show up in this.
Newsflash. I’m over it. I deserve more.
I’m also here to own the fact that I can be single and still take risks. I can bet on myself. And I can win.
Even if I spend months staring at that unfinished entertainment center.
