When I grew up.

I'm twenty-two years old, and, let me tell you, it's been the longest twenty-two years of my life. Caught in the revolving door of adulthood, I'm just happy to have found the building.

Back in July I signed on with Romano's Macaroni Grill (my second affair with Mama Romano). My goal was to wait on tables and writing on the wall: something that said "leave" or "stop that" or maybe even "she's over there."

Days later, I entered the corporate world of flying briefcases and fluorescent-fed ficus - temping by day, waiting tables by night.

A close friend of mine, Blake Mulkey, is always so quick to remind me of two things:

1. I over-introduce. "Have you met Blake?" "Why, yes. I'm Blake's mentor." "Oh."
2. My excuse for everything is "I have two jobs."

Yes, sixty hour work-weeks are such a convenient excuse. I can't do it, I can't be there, I can't... have two jobs anymore.

My friend, Priscilla Machado, who may have been quoting someone, once said: "Life is not about finding yourself. It's about creating yourself." True, this statement sounds like mantra of an Amway Convention, but I find so much truth in it. I'm not going to find Myself by stubbing my toe on whoever that is en route to becoming I'm clearly not created to be. God has spoken things over my life - about my identity, my destiny - and I must choose to agree with Him. (He's got the market cornered on these sorts of things.)

People who are out to find themselves are usually running from the reality of who they really are.

I'm done with chasing Myself. He runs really fast, and likes to duck under things as to cause me to bang my head on them. I'm ready to be myself - content, comfortable, calm.

All that to say: Myself doesn't like sixty-hour work weeks. I hear the call of a simpler life. I feel the fatigue, the exhaustion of living a complicated one. My treasure is shape-shifting - from things into people.

I really should get back to work. I'm writing on the job.