I love the Mid-Atlantic states. Love the beauty of them. The changes of season. I still giggle and stare at the window with every new snowfall. It’s little wonder that life keeps pulling me back here. I have a history here. There is a deeper connection than anywhere else I have ever been. I have sat on top of a mountain in the Catskills and watched the sun rise. I have taken long drives through Pennsyvania’s Amish country. I have spent my share of time in D.C.’s Irish pubs way before they opened and we legally allowed to be there and long after I should have gone home and let’s not forget the shore. *I am officially excluding Jersey shore from the Mid-Atlantic.* All of these are great memories of the simple joys one has and I value each of them but I like them as just memories. So why I’m doomed to repeat them is one of life’s great little
fuck yous ironies.
I was all of 21 or so when I moved to this area the first time and in need of a job. I remember distinctly walking in trying to hide my limp to apply for a Bartending position. (I had, I’m pretty sure, fractured both ankles doing something stupid but refused to see a doctor.) I was hired basically on the spot. There, I developed great friendships, made some alright money and generally made an ass of myself as young men do before going off on the next adventure and inevitable career. So it’s only fitting that last night, someone said the same place was hiring. My response was “That will be the place that hires me! …Because God hates me.”
My interview is in an hour. I’ll let you know.