The soles of the boots were thick, and they caught my eye. I lifted them off the shelf, and examined the masculine curve of the toe, the shine of the leather, and the light layer of fleece lining on the inside.
They were exactly what I was looking for.
As I tucked them under my arm, after deciding the price was worth it, I felt a rush of excitement.
That’s when I knew I was in trouble.
A daydream washed over my mind and lingered. A scene of me wearing the boots with the black, tight leggings and long-sleeved black top I had on now. Sitting at my favorite bar in downtown Wilmington, sipping a Malbec, and writing.
Then profound sadness when of course, I reminded myself why I was buying the boots. They were for work. And as the daydream slowly drifted away, I felt a surge of panic.
As a small child would, I grabbed a figurative mason jar and caught it, as if it was a firefly.
Then, politely requested it wait a minute.
Since last March, with a small hiatus this past summer, I’ve worked a 40+ hour work week at an agency with a bar job on the side. After an eight hour day at my ad agency, I spent most of my nights wiping tables as my co-workers went home and binged Netflix shows.
Or perhaps, they enjoyed a quiet dinner with their significant other, went to the gym, or grabbed a drink – I don’t actually know what they did after work, and perhaps, that’s the entire point.
Meanwhile, I got caught up in the buzz of feeling of being productive. I got the side job because I was bored with my life, and wanted to meet new people, have new experiences. I wanted to dip a toe in something unfamiliar.
And for a long time, I loved it. I loved the way the terrycloth bar towels ran smoothly over the wooden tables, how sweeping the floor was the equivalent of perfect, white noise. I loved the sound glasses made when the clinked together, in an after work cheers with a server or bar back that was as tired as I was.
But as I worked myself out of what was at the time, a massive rut, I also became infatuated with fatigue. Fatigue was the one who rationalized all of my decisions to pick up another shift or work another holiday. Fatigue was the one waiting for me in my car at 2 AM after the busiest nights, the one who forgot to reply back to text messages, and made excuses to why I didn’t have time to write, to draw, to date, or to sleep.
Fatigue encouraged me that my hectic work hours weren’t wearing me out, and that not having free time was a good thing. Not having free time made me special. It made me disciplined, and perhaps, a little better than typical 9 to 5vers, because I was willing to sacrifice leisure for effort.
Fatigue whispered to me as I rushed food out to tables, promising we’d have time together later.
“What would you be doing right now anyway?” Fatigue scoffed, in the moments that I really just wanted to quit.
When my exhaustion hit an all time high, we broke up. I took my summer hiatus, and replaced him with long stretches of time that I’d just write or listen to music. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with this newfound relaxation, the seemingly pointless sloth, so I went back to him.
I had trouble with the person I was without him. Without him, I was just floating, into nothingness. Always just drifting along, and at this time in my life, I wasn’t willing to take a poetic Huck Finn sail down a carefree river, whistling my worries away.
So I returned to my old bar job until I got a new full-time job, relocating me back to my beloved Wilmington. Shortly after I arrived, I happened upon another part-time food and bev opportunity, this time, as a full-blown bartender.
Fatigue was delighted.
“This is going to be so cool,” Fatigue had murmured to me throughout my first night behind the bar.
“You’re going to kick this job’s ass.”
As a man shouted to me that he needed another Corona, his fifth or sixth, Fatigue scoffed.
“I’m glad we don’t have to drink like that,” Fatigue chuckled. “What a loser.”
“But we can have a glass of wine before we go to sleep tonight,” he quickly added, perhaps sensing my doubt.
So now, standing in this store, bulky boots in hand, I reconsidered.
Why was I forcing myself to take this job?
What was I giving up my weekends for – my chances to write, lazily sip wine, to paint and to pursue other, more creative side gig endeavors that had been trying to hold on to my attention for months?
Fatigue begged me not to, but when no good reason to go back to that bar life surfaced, I texted the bar manager and told him I would not be coming back in. I told him that I enjoyed working there, but that it wasn’t a good fit.
Fatigue pouted, muttering statements about how I had blown an opportunity to show how confident and hardworking I was, but admitted (and realized) that I no longer cared.
I had already proved that I could work 60-80 hour weeks, that I could sacrifice, and that I was disciplined.
While I’m sure that my free time will quickly fill with my writing and modeling side hustles, I’m okay with that. I want to make space for those things. I’d like to give creativity, art, or discipline a chance to make me happy.
I’m just done with fatigue.
I recognize that this post was a bit hyperbolic, but I would also like to point out that I wrote it at my favorite bar in downtown Wilmington.
Tapping the black boots against the leg of the table, sipping a Malbec.