Thursday, September 12, 2013
Two nights ago, deep in the north side of Chicago, I got carded at an Irish pub. The drink itself, a John Daly, seemed benign enough to avoid scrutiny. Maybe I was having a good hair day, or maybe the room was just too dark, or maybe the server was suffering from a sudden onset of glaucoma. Whatever the real reason may have been, it was the perfect proxy for the trip as a whole–the clock had suddenly, improbably turned back, and I was young again.
This shouldn’t have been surprising at all, I suppose. Technically, I’m the most junior member on the team, both in age and experience. The former is easily addressed. I need only look at the date on my driver’s license to remember that, yes, I’m an adult. It’s the second thing–experience–that’s been particularly challenging. There have been moments, in the past few days, when I’ve employed every trick in my bag, only to find myself barely holding on.
Starting over kinda sucks, plain and simple. You round a bend in your career path and find the slate wiped clean–bank drained of personal equity, a sharp ache to put one on the board, eyes straining for a glimpse of a faraway oasis. To be perfectly honest, though, I don’t know if I’d want to reach that oasis. I know I wouldn’t be content with just cruising. When I used to be musically inclined, I had a rule. Any orchestra that would deposit me in the 1st violin section would warrant skepticism. This wasn’t false modesty. It was an honest appraisal of my skill. I knew my limits, and I was happiest when I tried my hardest and found myself in the 2nd violins. That’s what I used to say, anyhow. Now, I just need to believe it.