This is the post I’ve avoided writing for seven months.
I lost my restaurant.
No, I didn’t misplace it. It’s stationary. If it were a food truck, that might make sense, like I parked it somewhere and now I can’t find it. I’m a known drunkard, so it’s not that far-fetched. Plus, I make stupid jokes to keep from crying.
But no, I lost my restaurant in that I had to make the decision to shut it down permanently. It’s not all that funny. I had seen other people lose their businesses before, and that was fucking hilarious. But this time, it happened to ME, which was significantly less funny.
My given name is Rickey. Not Richard. Rickey. In fact, I am
Rickey, Junior, as I am named after my father. Among family, I’m sometimes
referred to as “Little Rickey,” though I am 42 years old and 3” taller than my
dad. I’ve stopped growing, but he’s bound to start shrinking any day now, so I
fully expect that height differential to keep expanding.
People spell my name incorrectly all the time – Ricky is the
most common, followed by Rickie. Sometimes people mispronounce it, sounding
more like “hey asshole” than the phonics would otherwise indicate. I always
respond, though, so I guess it works.
I take it for granted that I have a relatively outgoing personality. I don’t really stop and consider that through a fortunate combination of DNA and upbringing, it doesn’t faze me to stand in front of people and talk. My grandparents and parents did a good job of holding me accountable for making eye contact, speaking at a volume that could be heard, enunciating, and giving firm handshakes. Continue reading
I rarely feel anxiety anymore, at least not to the level that it affects my day-to-day life. I stress the word “anymore,” because for much of my life, my stomach was in a knot. As a sophomore in high school, I threw up almost daily. It wasn’t because I was physically sick. It was because my stress outpaced my coping mechanisms.