I started writing this on my phone while on a sweaty summer break in a city park. I wanted to read, but I couldn’t stop thinking about all of the many internal dialogues playing inside my mind. What follows are the rantings of my then uneasy mind…
Life is a struggle. It’s a trite saying, but it’s never held more truth in my life than right now. By developing my “hustle muscle”, as Jaime Foxx calls it, I somehow landed on a path where everything in my life has become a hustle.
My career and my job are a hustle. All of the articles about the dangers of temp work seem to be true. It’s nothing personal against my direct supervisors or even the CEO or HR Director. It’s business and politics and, maybe, I don’t fit in as well as I thought.
You know what? I’m kind of, really quite ok with it. You see, temping is as much a chance for the employer to try on something for size as it is for the temp. And let’s be honest. I kind of have a habit of settling and leaning into things I should take as a lesson as opposed to a permanent fixture. Sometimes, things just don’t work out and that’s fine. As my bestie says, “on to the next!”
But let’s back up a bit. I’ve been on temp assignment for about five months now. It’s an industry I would have never been able to experience because of lack of, well, experience, but I have quite a bit of life experience- doesn’t always matter in most circles, but what are you gonna do? I was misled a little with delusions of grandeur that told me I’d be a shoe-in once the budget was approved. But maybe it wasn’t their decision to make. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t.
Regardless, it’s actually lit a fire under my ass. I was forced to really sit down and calculate my financial goals as well as chart the steps needed to enter any industry I have even the slightest of interest in. This experience also allowed me to meet friends number three, four, and five. Hey, my loners and world travelers out there will understand the difficulties of keeping and making friends when you’re always on the go. No judgment over there. Ok? I make do where I can.
My friends are a hustle. So, yes, to continue and elaborate as briefly as a verbose woman can, I am embarking on a new journey of finding true friends. The five friends I currently have in this area have all been made in the past year and a half. Its been a real struggle because they all live at least forty-five minutes away from me. Coordinating schedules, deciding who’s going to make the trek,- usually me. Always me- and finding common things to do together.
That is the issue with finding friends in adulthood. You maybe clicked over a shared joke or feeling about a coworker. Or maybe you met on the street cause there weren’t many black people in the area and they were curious about who you were. Either way, like a romantic relationship, it seems that finding mutual things to do after the honeymoon phase is difficult to do in these types of relationships too.
The friendship also seems to accelerate and people feel close to you even if they don’t particularly know the real you. Do they actually know the real you behind the person they have created from the few times you’ve spent a few hours together? Do they listen or do they try to tell you how to be you? This is where I get upset…
Yes. Solidarity. It is a real thing and I don’t deny the need for it or it’s power. But, can we discuss the biggest pet peeve of mine? Blerd females out there will understand. Yes, there may be shared experiences because of our skin color, but that isn’t all we are. And no, we aren’t denying our blackness by liking things like Doctor Who and rock music while feeling, at best, indifferent to Drake and rap music.
This is where my hustle struggle comes in. I’m tired of people trying to fix me or offer advice before I’ve even completed my sentence. Don’t tell me I don’t like being black or that I’m not being my true self because I don’t fit a mold. It’s kind of rude and a bit difficult for you to discern from the few brief conversations we’ve had and the incomplete sentences I’ve uttered.
My living situation is a struggle. Well, not really. It’s a godsend being able to live with my mom while I get my finances in order. But it’s time to move back out. I’m ready. I’ve got my eye on an apartment building and, by sheer thought and pixie dust, I’m willing the Universe to keep one of the units available. I put it here in words for you all to see. By January, I will be leasing one of those lovely apartments near the river!
Well, I may have lied a little earlier. Everything in my life isn’t a hustle, not anymore at least. My car. My car is not as much of a hustle because I had to replace the damned thing…I bought a pre-owned beauty who came with a few scratches, one dent,- Yes, I counted- and a lack of cargo security. Now, I’m not ungrateful for this car. It’s just one more bill while I try to sort out my next career move. Am I annoyed that I had to fix the old one until I found a new one? Yes.
This hustle, however, is tiny. Luckily, the one thing in my life that isn’t a struggle or hustle is how well I lift heavy shit. Two of my Crossfit buddies can help me with the scratches and tinting the hatchback window. Problem solved…I just need a couple hundred in cash. Easy peasy, right?