Last Resort Option: Out

When I first considered moving to St. Thomas, I told people that if I couldn't find an office job, I'd just tend bar or waitress. It could be a fun adventure. I was mostly joking, but I considered it an option.

During the third session with my holistically awesome therapist who helped guide me through this major move, she asked what was the worse that could happen if I gave up my job and life as I knew it and moved to the island.

"I could get killed by a hurricane." I said.

"Natural disasters don't count. That could happen here too." she told me.

"I could get hit by a stray bullet. That happens down there, seriously. They have a gun problem on island."

"Nope, that doesn't count either. That could still happen here in your life now. The girl that was shot in St. Paul last weekend, that was in my neighborhood. But I'm not going to spend all my time worrying about my safety and that of my children because it's unproductive. It doesn't do you any good to focus on random violence and natural disasters because you have no control over those things and it wastes valuable mental energy you could use on something else.",

"Okay. Well, I could go through all my savings and end up waiting tables or bartending."

"Okay. That counts. You could go through all your savings and end up waiting tables or bartending."

"Anything else?"

Not that I could think of...

And at the time, this last resort didn't seem so bad. I mean, it's a risk. But not a crappingly huge risk. And when put in the perspective that I could lose all of the relatively little money I had and get stuck working in the service industry, it felt like a risk worth taking, especially considering the creative and spiritual (and okay romantic) pull I felt calling me to the island.

I've been here for a little over a month now and have been offered two jobs (while having applied for many). The talented chef at my neighborhood beach restaurant has asked me to waitress for him three times now. I have declined each time, telling him thanks, but I'm looking for an administrative job with benefits. I'll let him know if I get desperate.

And then last night a local proprietor sort of talked me into showing up at nine this morning to learn how to make drinks and see if I'll work out as season help at the bar. For some reason (...beer), I decided this was a good idea. It could be a fun adventure. At least I'm not sitting around all day with nothing to do but job search in a limited market. So I agreed to show up and meet with the senior bartender (who has served me on multiple occasions) and two other girls for training.

Now, I've never worked in the food industry before, preferring retail in high school and campus jobs in college. And then group homes before getting my first real business job. Yes, rather than waiting tables or pouring drinks, I've always preferred to work in group homes where wiping butts was part of my regular duties. I'm telling you, there's heart and soul in wiping butts.

So, after a tossy-turny night of weird, unpleasant dreams about my future bartending experience, I woke up late yet still determined to show up and try my hand at pouring drinks. After we started to actually work (which requires things like wiping down and stocking the bar and hauling ice around in a huge garbage bin ) it was pretty clear to me that these two other darlings (nice girls. asked to be called by nicknames sounding like stripper pseudonyms. i didn't fit in.) definitely knew exactly what they were doing.  And that no one was real interested in training me. Which was fine. Because after an hour, it was pretty clear to me that bartending is not an Ashley job.

I don't even really like bars. At least not enough to spend time in one six days a week. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good time out, but I'm not a big crazy party girl. Also, I know I would drink and smoke too much, which was my boyfriend's immediate concern (and he's certainly not prudish when it comes vices). But apparently bartenders here tend to party A LOT.

I don't want to memorize all the types of alcohol and drinks and shots. I don't want to spend my days with drunk people in an atmosphere smelling faintly of vomit, looking at a big-breasted mermaid painted on the wall.

Another thing is that I want to work somewhere air-conditioned. Maybe that sounds lame. But if I can't live in air-conditioning, I at least want to be saved from constant sweating during the work day. An open bar by the cruise ship docks definitely increases my sweat level. My face dripped so much during the short time I was there that the proprieter handed me a paper towel to wipe it off. Attractive, huh? Now that I mention it, I don't like cruise ships either and wouldn't want to look at them all day every day. Or serve and entertain their passengers.

I want to work in a nice, clean, air-conditioned office with other people who are better versed in Microsoft Office and 3-in-1 fax/copy/scan machines than mixed drinks and bottle openers. (I was supposed to bring my own? Who knew?!)

So, after two hours, I thanked the proprieter very kindly for the opportunity, but told him that I felt in my gut this wasn't for me. I got in my car and blasted the AC, thinking longingly about computer screens and desks. I certainly didn't expect that to happen when I left my job in the states.

So, I now know that bartending is not for me. But, dammit, there goes my last resort option.