Holly Golightly sings about whether it’s easy being me. Spoiler alert – it isn’t.

I could reach out across my lifetime and scrape together more than my fair share. I know it’s there and I don’t hide from that part of myself. It’s how I deal with that shit that defines me. I don’t cower, quit or fade. I have witnessed enough life to know that I could be less honest to make things easier. As a great person once shrugged and said, “Por que no?”

The main reason I’m honest is so I can sleep. Not that I sleep well all the time but when I do it’s the sleep of blissful ignorance. I don’t go looking for drama or drink myself into a stupor every day. Satisfaction comes to me fleetingly when I complete a task usually for a job. Over time I’ve tried to apply that quality to my personal life. But that’s a job I just can’t keep. Examining myself too closely only results in nihilism.

I’m honest so I can raise my hand when someone walks into a crowded room and asks, who here knows themselves completely? An unlikely scenario but what if the fate of the human race depended on it? No, bad example. What if the fate of all dogs rested on my ability to embrace the universal spirit? That seems like a great reason to live by my word. I signed on knowing it would be hard. I endure. It was either this or become a lawyer. And if I wanted money or security I’d still be married.

Of course, if I’m being honest, the best reason for maintaining my own integrity is the ability to talk to children. An elusive if not terrifying process, I’ve only recently learned the joy stemming from conversations with innocents. I have nothing to hide and can genuinely listen, creating an almost perfect sounding board for child-like imagination. I fall short on the execution side mostly because it’s theoretical but also ahimsa. And children don’t lament the things they can’t do because they live in a world that will go on forever. It’s as pure as believing in Santa Claus and I revel in it’s beauty.

This is an essay on why I don’t mind being dismissed by my superiors, ostracized by my peers and/or feared by non-superiors. I’d like to say inferiors because the word superior is an acceptable pseudonym but the converse is just insulting. The pulp of social disparity. Words we use and why. I wouldn’t be surprised if my kitchen manager wants to start being called chef before long. Working the line with him is painful and I’m supposed to pretend it isn’t. I don’t feel I get paid enough for that. But that’s the crux of the problem isn’t it? The superiors don’t think what I do is worth that much. They will find someone else to do it, eventually.