There is a part of me (a 17 year old teenager) that swore I would never have a desk job. I get lost in papers, all the options on the top of a word document start to blur into hieroglyphics. I miss little details, and big details. I forget to attach things and my Macbook self is lost on Outlook. What a bunch of first world problems. But I am here, at the desk I don’t get to call my own, sharing with anyone who will see this about how I feel like I am coming up short. Like my purpose is only in the kitchen or focused on the kitchen. Or how food gets there or what comes out of it. Most days I feel unfulfilled and like I am letting a part of myself down. But today, I got a little satisfaction of answering every call that came in with a smile and helping women (it’s mostly women who call) book an event space for their wedding or baby shower.
It is the part of The Roughian I appreciated the least but found the most satisfaction doing, In retrospect. I loved planning the plan. I loved talking to clients about what they saw for their unnamed celebration or milestone dinner party. Those days are hibernating now, for me, as I am trying to sever my personality from food. Today, I was effective and happily so. I loved checking off things in a fashion of speed and concise detail. This job feels like a good fit some days.. when the meds are hitting.
Today, sitting at this desk, I wrote vows for a 10 year wedding anniversary renewal. I wrote a birthday card to the closest thing to a daughter I will probably ever have and I got all my work done. Plus, I got up at 5am and made my god-daughter a chocolate ganache cake. Her favorite. Honestly, she said - mouth full of cake, low and dreamy eyes, slightly nodding head - and said, ‘this is the best cake ever…’ With almost disbelief.
I’m leaving work today, making two shillings an hour, thinking… this was not the best day ever but it feels like saying that again, and meaning it, is an actual possibility.
Here’s to chocolate cake, learning Microsoft Outlook and not putting myself in a box slapped with labels. I’m surfacing. And breathing feels nice.
nt 6/5/2025