I’ve been trying to write this post for a long time, and I’ve been wondering why it’s so hard to get it down. As is, I opened the window half an hour ago then took a break to discover Angry Birds. I knew what it was, but I’d never actually played it until today. It’s remarkably addictive. It had me giggling and clapping in minutes! But again, I digress.

The reason I’ve been putting off this post is that it scares me. I’m in a place where I’m a perfect fit, and I keep feeling something will go wrong. I just got this new job that’s so fun, I’m wondering where it was all my life, and whether it will randomly wake up one day and go back where it came from. The boy that I love has suddenly found a chance to be with me, and all he has to do is decide if he really wants to take it. My little girl is happy at school, and my nephew is thriving as things sort themselves out. In three years, I’ll be completely debt free and insured, and I’ll have my pretty fish tank and some other pretty things. I’m at the edge of a tower where all my dreams could come true, and no matter which way I fall, it will all end up rainbows and unicorns.

But deep inside my head, all I hear is Nickelback.

I’ve heard people say you can be afraid of success, and maybe that’s where I’m at now. I’ve never doubted my ability to write, but I haven’t written for marketting before – not really. So every time I get a new assignment, I do it with trepidation and speed, because I can’t wait for it to be over. I hand it to the boss and close my eyes, waiting to hear him yell or scream or tell me to start over again.

Instead, he pats my back and says, ‘Superb!’ He gives me compliments during board meetings and says how I’m doing such an excellent job, and all I can do is wonder what he’s smoking. Or maybe he’s just really diplomatic. I do a write-up for a website and the designers take it live and I’m thinking, ‘Wait! You guys do realize I have no clue what I’m doing, right? Shouldn’t somebody check that first?’ It’s an unusual feeling for a girl who’s never had a doubt about her words.

An intern comes into the office and is told I’m the expert on word play, that I’m really, really good, and that he should come to me for advice and I’m thinking … erm … boss … I’m barely three days old here! The graphics people gravitate towards me and say they need two paragraphs on XYZ and as soon as I give it, they ship it straight onto the … um … iFrame thingie … while I sit there bumbwazzed and wondering what just happened.

I like this job a lot, and the primary reason is that I got it by being me. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I was just doing what I love, and doing it how I knew best. My boss looked at my blog, my chats, my social profile – which it turns out he has been following for years – and decided I was a right fit for the job. He wasn’t bothered by my drama or my inadequacies. He knew this thing would fit me like a glove, and it does.

Every day last week, I’d get home and someone would call or text to ask how the new job was going. I’d always respond that I loved it and that I was having a lot of fun. Then I would disqualify the statement by saying it was probably newbie psyche. I was worried I would sink into depression once the novelty had died and it had started to feel ‘more like a real job.’ This week, things got a bit more hectic, and it felt like work because I woke up in the morning and wished I could just stay in bed. But still, I got here and laughed and had fun, though I wasn’t quite as giddy as I was last week.

Next week, one of my colleagues goes on leave, so the workload will probably double. Maybe when that happens, I will start to feel like the harassed-rat-in-a-maze that my contract says I am. But right now, I’m still happy about this job that lets me spend all day on Facebook, Twitter, WordPress, Blogger and YouTube, and I even get Alternative Addiction Radio. It’s a bit hard learning to work with people because I’m such a loner. But I’m personable, so I fake it pretty well, and the people here are cool. The boys are mostly pretty and the girls are mostly fun to be around.

I have to learn to multitask, and to be calm about being in town after dark. And sometimes I feel stupid when I realize how creative my bosses are. They unleash these awesome campaign ideas, and I just sit there thinking man, I wouldn’t have come up with that if I was locked in a cave for a thousand years! Makes me feel kind of inadequate, and more than just a little blond. In the meantime, a workmate says he likes talking to me because I never look like I’m under pressure. He said this about ten minutes after I posted this tweet.

So … if everything is going so perfect … why am I so scared?

I guess it’s because I’m so used to things going wrong that I don’t know how to respond now that things are going right. Or at least, they will be in a few months time. See? I’m doing it again. When I look at the view from this tower, I see myself in six months, able to pay fees comfortably, free of domestic drama, finally having the boy I love, skating with my baby on the weekend, and down to my ideal weight. And even if I don’t get those things, I’m still going to be smiling and cool.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not high, and I’m hardly in la-la-land. I am facing a lot of things, and some people are still worried about me. They’re more worried because I’m so calm about everything, but my life coach has a theory. He says I hit rock bottom last year and I bounced back, so I’ve gained the resilience that I needed. If I hadn’t been through what I went through last October, I might not be able to deal with here and now.

Or maybe I’m just getting wise and old.

Either way, I look in the office mirror and I love the girl that’s looking back at me, so even if I don’t lose the weight, it will be fine because all I have to do is Kimunya the office mirror. And I have such assurance in the boy that I love that even if he doesn’t end up with me, he’s given me just what I need, so I know it will be fine.

But I’m so used to things not being okay that this new calm is such a shock to my system, I’m in some kind of screwed mental daze!

My boss has read my Twitter rants for years, so I’m guessing he knows all my quirks and foibles. He also knows how much I tweet during a coffee high meltdown, so thank heavens the Nescafe vending machine thingie includes [really bad] tea. When he hired me for this job, he said, ‘Everyone is pretty easy, and everything is a team effort. There’s no such things a Fear of Failure here.’ So I take another break to play Angry Birds attend a meeting where people will say things like, ‘What do you think we should do?’ and wait for me to give a concrete answer. And when I say the first thing that pops into my head, they will say, ‘Brilliant, let’s go with that.’ I will sit in a brainstorming session with my bosses, and they will come up with all these amazing ideas while I stare intently and pretend to concentrate so that my jaw won’t drop to the floor.

I will scribble, doodle, and write limericks in my notebook, and since they can’t read my handwriting, they will assume that I’m taking minutes and ask me to forward my notes to everyone else. Then they will ask, ‘Crystal, what do you think?’ And I will give my honest opinion, and they will say, ‘Excellent, go do a write up.’

I will stare blankly at my machine for half an hour, then I will type the first four paragraphs that occur to me, and they will read them and say, ‘She’s a genius!’ And once again, I will wonder what they’re smoking.

They will look at my head and praise my awesome hairdo, and compliment my girly pink headphones, and I will smile and think I really need to find out who supplies them with whatever it is they’re smoking. And then I will go home, hug my princess, cuddle my nephew, collapse into bed, dream of Burgundy Angry Birds, and wait for the shock to wear off and the joy to sink in because now, finally, everything is okay.

Disclaimer: Fiction … mostly *cheeky grin*

Working at the Qwapa Club seemed like a good idea. The name may have been  bad omen. The bar looked a lot like the one in Coyote Ugly, and I didn’t exactly plan to have water fights on the counter. But it was a really pretty bar. It had these tiles on the floor that shimmied when you looked at them just so. I couldn’t wait to try staring at the tiles while drunk. Of course, ideally, I wouldn’t spend much time being drunk. After all, my designated title was Bartender.

It wasn’t my first choice – this club. My first choice was this place across the street, Zip-zap. There’s no particular reason why I chose Zip-zap. It’s the first joint I walked into when I got off the bus four years ago, and I’d promised myself that I’d work there someday. So I went through the motions, paid for boot camp, went there, did that, got the t-shirt. The t-shirts – by the way – are for uniform. These cute little burgundy numbers that make A-cups sag with cleavage. I hear they’ve got Nubras hidden in the changing room, but I never found out where because I never got to use them.

Anyway, two days into the job, we had Management come in for a drink. Apparently, they do it once a month, and since they own the club, they own … well … everything in it. Now that in itself would have been fine. I’m used to people grabbing my lady bits. A lot of hands have been broken that way, so I wasn’t worried on that account. What did worry me were the guys in management. One guy in particular – Tom – was … well … let’s just say we had history and he wanted to dredge it up. In public. With all his buddies watching.

I quit the next day.

And that’s how I ended up here. See, on the two days that I’d worked the club, I made some pretty good sales. Sam, the bartender, thought I was brilliant. He said he’d never sold that many pinacoladas. And I didn’t even flash any skin! The tequila girl was mad at me though, because she was flashing lots of skin but her sales were barely half of mine.

Anyway, turns out Sam knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. He gave me a name and a number to call. I took the tip and ended up next door. At least this way, I could look in on Sam as I left work every day.

The moment I walked into Qwapa Club, I knew I had a future there. I can’t really tell why. It might be because the guy at the gate was nice to me. He was so different from my previous gatekeeper. The bouncer at Zip-zap was grabby. He’d always turn off the metal detector minutes before I walked in. It gave him a chance to ‘inspect my stuff’ in person. Pervert.

But this doorman was polite. He introduced himself, asked me about my hairdo, translated the Chinese script on my tattoo. In another world, I might have been offended that he was hitting on me, but here, I was just glad he kept his hands where I could see them.

The hostess was great too, so nice. It made me paranoid. I’m not use to women being that nice to me. For a second, I thought she might be gay. After a while, I saw her making out with George from accounting, and that made me relax for about five minutes … which is when I noticed her noticing me smack in the middle of a make-out. It’s a bit worrying that she shifted her focus to me, and it wasn’t a look that said ‘This is our little secret.’ It was more like ‘Hey, wanna join?’

Yes, it’s possible to say all that in a single look.

Still, the place is pretty fun to work, and the perks are good, so I’ll forgive the hot bisexual hostess. I love learning about their new drinks and fixing cocktails with creepy names. There’s a bar guy who thinks I’m an intern, so he’s always making me mop floors and clean broken glass, but the boss lets me make my own concotions. Yesterday, I even got to name one! He likes his bartenders to be adventurous, so when he liked the drink I’d mixed, he put it right on the menu, and I got to name it. I sold 4000 shots of Diva Drama that night. How cool is that?

It might be n00bie psyche, but I really like it here. Everyone keeps saying that I’ll jade out soon enough, after I’ve made the same boring drink for forty-seven nights in a row. I’ll deal with that monster when it gets here.

They have this room in the back of the club that connects to an underground aquarium. It’s absa-freaking awesome! I could spend hours in there just zoobing at the fish. It’s why I stopped taking cigarette breaks – you can’t smoke in there and I have five breaks a day. At this rate, I might stop smoking completely!

A strange thing happened in the back room yesterday. I met this boy. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but there was some kind of smoke alarm hazard thingie and we ended up locked in the back room for hours. I was fine with it – more time to chill with the fish! But my … companion … wasn’t so hot on the idea. Turns out he’s claustrophobic. Also, he could have a passing fear of water. What a hydrophobe was doing in the fish tank room I have no idea. Maybe he just followed me there.

Anyway, I taught him a  little yoga, got him to relax and not think about the water. Or the doors. Or the alarms. I played with his mind and convinced him we were out in an open field with goats and cows and … peas. Don’t ask me how I did it. Let’s just say there’s a thin line between voice-prompted meditation and hypnosis. There’s also a lot more to yoga than gravity boots and potentially gymnastic sex.

And no, we didn’t have any.

We spent four hours down there, and we got to know a lot about each other. We had … a moment. It was actually pretty cool. So when Sam called me later with some news, it wasn’t really Sam on my mind.

Let me explain. See, Sam got promoted to manager. Turns out Tom – the grabber-ex-turned-manager – ended up grabbing the wrong girl. Long story short, Sam was now in charge, and he wanted me back at Zip-zap.

It should have been a pretty easy decision. I mean – I’ve known Sam for … well …. not exactly years. More like days. But we connected. We bonded. We had joint karma! Plus, he was offering me twice the money.

Still … I wasn’t quite so keen to leave my underground aquarium, and the bisexual hostess, and the shimmy-ing floors. Plus, I didn’t have to wear heels or minis at Qwapa. And did I mention Yoga Boy? We had a moment for chrissakes!

In the end, I told Sam I’d think about it, but I think we both knew I didn’t really mean it. He did ask if I could serve at his place on weekends. He’s got a minibar at home and throws up quite a party. Now that I could do. That I could live with. It meant more time with Sam, and there was lots that I could learn from the master. Besides, I served at his place on his birthday, and I know for a fact that his guests give great tips.

So, back to my new job. I walked into my shift all cheerful and ditzy, hoping to pick things up with Yoga Boy. I mean, you don’t spend four hours locked in a room and not feel something. Heck, if it was a movie, there’d be a baby-making scene in fifteen minutes flat! So … shock on me when he walked right past as if he hadn’t even seen me. Can you say ouch? Clearly, our ‘moment’ was all in my head. Le sigh.

I tried to brush the nagging thoughts away. Maybe he was embarrassed about showing off his phobias. Maybe he was rushing for a meeting with the boss. Maybe my yoga hypnotism has the same side effects as rohipnol. Maybe I forgot to snap my fingers at the end. Whatever the reason, Yoga Boy didn’t seem to think the little session in the fishing tank was worth writing home about. Sigh. Talk about #ThatAwkwardMoment!

I didn’t have a lot of time to mope about it because The Other Guy walked in. He’s a customer – a regular, apparently. Comes in every morning at 7.48. The precision level of that timing is disturbing. Very disturbing.

He generally orders water, and sips on it while he reads the paper. Then as he’s about to leave, he’ll grab some form of candy. Usually it’s Cadburys, but sometimes he’ll go with cereal bars or Kitkat marbles. Some days, he smiles at me, and other days, he looks like he almost wants to ask for my number.

He did a strange thing today though. He asked me my name. It isn’t strange to ask the girl behind the bar for her name. It is strange when you’re staring at her chest and she’s wearing a name tag. Sigh. Why are all the hot ones perverts?

Well, it turns out he isn’t a pervert – just clinically blind. Apparently, he’d just gotten new contacts and could barely see a thing, so he decided to test out his new vision on my … chest. Smooth. He ended up ditching the contacts and pulling out a pair of glasses. In the awkward moment between machinations, I noticed his eyes. Green. Hmm…

I was still planning what to do with the green when Yoga Boy showed up and took my hand. I turned in partial distraction as he asked for the number of the dry ice supplier. I ducked under the bar to get it and came back up to find the two guys having a stare down. Haiya!

I gave Yoga Boy the number, gave Green Eyes his receipt, then walked away to take a call on my cell. When I came back two minutes later, both guys were gone, and there were two numbers scribbled on my order pad.  I couldn’t tell which number belonged to who, or why they’d scribbled them there, so I just stuck them both on the fridge with a magnet and a shrug. Men are so strange.

♫ Cloudboy ♫ USS ♫

I wrote you a drunken letter yesterday. Well … it wasn’t a letter so much as a text, and I wasn’t drunk so much as high on hormones. There’s a period in my cycle – I’m not sure when it is – but there’s a period when all I do is want you. I long to have you near me, to have you hold me, and love me, and want me. I mostly try to ignore it, because it’s bound to result in baby-making, and I’m way past done with baby-making.

I don’t know what the cause is, so it always blindsides me. It starts with deep, philosophical thinking, then escalates to needs for fries, sausages, and chocolate. I find myself reading poetry, and taking a little too long in the shower. At some point, I pick my phone and start to dial your number, and most days, I stop before it rings.

Yesterday was like that. I scarfed a huge bar of chocolate, then I started to text. I wrote it once, twice, three times, trying to get the words just right.  I almost cried from wanting you so much. I checked the time to see if you were awake, and this is what I wrote.

There are times in a girl’s life when she needs someone to hold her and love her and want her. Times like that, I wish you weren’t so far away.

I looked at the message, turned it over in my mind. I knew that I meant it, and I wanted you to hear it. I wanted you to know how much I felt it, to know how badly I want you. I knew I had no right to send it, that I should shift to something else … or someone else. Still, I stared at my phone, scrolled the address book, keyed in your number, hovered over send.

Then I stopped. I thought about your girl. Does she mean more to you than me? Do you love her more than me? Are you with her because you can’t be with me? If we could … if you could … would you leave her for me?

My finger strayed from ‘send’ … because it doesn’t matter. It’s not about who loves you more, wants you more, deserves you more. It’s about choice, it’s about time. And the fact is … she saw you first. She chose you first. And you choose her, or maybe … you let her choose you. Either way, you’re with her. You’re not with me.

I put the phone back on the floor, turned off the lights, and went to sleep.

This morning, my craving for you was gone. I grabbed the phone to put off the alarm and saw the text I wrote. It made me sad, but it also made me smile. I’m glad I put the phone down. I’m glad I didn’t hit send. I’m glad you don’t know what was on my mind. Because no matter how much I love and want you, I know how it feels, and I know how badly it would hurt for some girl to send that message to my man.