My house is next door to a typical Halifax pizza shop. It’s owned and run by a very nice older couple from Lebanon (they also live right across the road – so we’re neighbours). Mrs. G is 58 years old, smokes, drinks very strong Turkish-style coffee, and is quite overweight. She has a temper and a thick accent. She is also my new hero, because after working a shift with her last night I am in awe of her speed, stamina, and organizational skills.
Mrs. G knows my contract is up, and that I need some kind of job – any kind of job – to fill the income gap. She also really likes me, which is balm to my ego at the moment. We get along well because she does not suffer fools gladly, and with no false modesty I will say that I am a hard worker & a quick learner.
So last night I worked a five hour shift, taking orders and running the cash.
I came home exhausted, with sore feet and smelling strongly of pizza. (In fact, I can see this being good for my weight loss goals; after smelling it for five hours I don’t think I’ll ever want to eat it again).
I had a blast.
The universe just keeps teaching me – over and over again – that it doesn’t matter what I am doing for a job, as long as I enjoy the process. This morning I am still marveling that a 58 year old Lebanese pizza cook treated me with more respect than my current bosses ever did.
Six more days…