We’ve all seen them. Maybe in person, maybe just on TV. They stand on street corners with signs declaring, “The End Is Near.” Well, I have my own “The End Is Near” sign in the form of a date on my calendar. It marks the final day of my culinary training. The day when, newly armed with my Culinary Arts degree, I will be released back into the world to find gainful employment. For the first time in almost twenty years, I will be entering the real world and asking someone to take a chance on me. Now some of you who know me are probably saying, “You’ve only been unemployed for 2 years, not 20.” Fair enough. But, you must realize that for the 18 years prior to that, I was in education. As those of you who might be in education know, it is not the real world. It is a very different world with very different rules where for the most part, I was paid to either talk, or supervise other people who talked (please don’t be offended my educator friends, you know what I mean). I was paid to think, not to do. Now I will be asked to do and probably told not to think! My Dad made a living with his hands. He built things, he fixed things that were broken. At the end of the day, he could see how he had created something where it previously didn’t exist. This was never my forte. It probably goes back to my mother not wanting me to get dirty when I was little. To be fair, I was never really interested in the dreaded “manual labor” that fed my family for all those years. Now, at age 48, I will be asked to produce. Frankly, it scares the hell out of me. I have always been a thinker. Just ask my wife. Her response will probably be something along the lines of “If you want ideas, he’s your man. If you want a speaker fixed, keep the screwdriver away from him (sorry, but that is an inside joke between me and my beloved).” I think I know what happened. Growing up, the only thing I ever wanted to do, the only thing I ever wanted to be was a baseball player. If a ball was hit my way, I caught it. It was God’s plan for my hands to be used to catch and throw. Or so I thought. Why would I risk injury by helping my dad repair the car, shingle the roof, build a cabinet, etc. Now, I must accept the reality that despite the fact that the major leagues sorely lack good lead-off men with exceptional speed and a good glove, I may be past my prime. The call I have waited on for over 40 years may not be coming (insert a loud sigh here and excuse me while I wipe the broken dreams off my cheek). So now, the only batter I will face will be for blueberry muffins. The only glove I will wear to work will be an oven mitt.
The End Is Near
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