Sorry, It's My First Night

During my late twenties, I had this great idea to become a bartender. It was the perfect plan, and one of the few I acted on. I would attend bartending school for a week and then get a job at a cool locals’ bar and make mad cash. Bartending most nights would free up my days for writing. Still one of my favorite clichés.

More than a cliché though, it was a perfect plan, and I loved perfection more than logic.

It was easy to find a bartending school in Las Vegas and easy to find the time to attend classes since I was on one of my open-ended voluntary sabbaticals. Not one to take too long getting things done, I found a school that delivered the goods in one week.

Monday through Friday, 7:30 am to 4:30 pm. They even promised to help graduates land their first interview. Done and done. A few hundred dollars later, I was enrolled and excited.

I got up extra early that first day, slipped into the most bartender-appropriate outfit, and went on my way. The school was downtown on the second floor of an old office building that could have easily been a converted motel.

I parked in the dirt lot next door, power-walked up the stairs, and then stood at the door for a moment to catch my breath both physically and mentally. This was the doorway to my new career, my new life, my new self. No pressure or anything.

The classroom resembled a dark flea market with multiple stations set up around the perimeter of the room. Each station looked like a 4-foot section of a fully stocked bar you might walk up to and lean against while placing your order.

I walked in and scanned the room for a clue on what to do next. Nothing quite like that first day of school. Nerves in overdrive, palms sweaty, trying to appear cool as you look around for a familiar, or even friendly, face.

Following the lead of those before me, I settled into an empty station and, without touching anything, inspected the bottles and gadgets spread out on the counter. Tequila, vodka, a corkscrew, a cocktail strainer and shaker, whiskey, glasses of varying sizes. After the first few bottles of alcohol, my brain stopped ingesting it. I was already over-stimulated, and class hadn’t even started.

Minutes later, we were going around the room introducing ourselves and listening to an overview of the week ahead from a man who looked like he could be a bartending instructor. He revealed himself to be exactly that with an impressive 20-year career behind the bar as his main credential.

If he could do it, we could do it. Or so he promised.

We spent the next few hours learning about the different types of alcohol and where they’re from and generally how they’re brought into existence. After a 30-minute lunch break, we reconvened and learned about the different glasses and practiced pouring shots.

There was a lot more to being a bartender than my fantasy had accounted for.

By the end of that first class, my brain was officially jam packed and scrambling to organize and make sense of this new information while also readjusting my glamorous expectations for this new career.

This is what I refer to as my oh shit moment. I’ve had many of them over the years.

I made my way down the stairs and to the parking lot, drifting in and out of the present moment long enough to get into the right car and make all the correct turns to get myself home.

My brain retraced the different types of alcohol and rushed through imaginary orders from imaginary customers at my imaginary job as a bartender in my imaginary future. I spent the rest of the night curled up on my couch trying to come up with funny ways to say sorry, it's my first night.

The next day, I dragged myself out of bed, threw on some outfit, and drove the long way to class, trying to hit as many red lights as possible while giving myself a half-hearted pep talk. I tried to convince myself that everyone was nervous and overwhelmed on the first day and that today would be better.

I tried so hard to remember my plan and how this job would be perfect for me and how much fun it would be once I got into it.

I parked my car and headed up the stairs to class but detoured at the last minute and found myself standing alone, shaking in a bathroom stall. My breath felt heavy. My arms felt tingly and sore. My stomach started to hurt, and my knees were all sweaty.

This was my first panic attack. It was also not the last.

My body was making it impossible for my brain to lie to me in that moment. My body knew I was nervous and worried and anxious. My body knew I was scared to fail and scared to look dumb and scared to be out of my comfort zone.

Scared to be wrong, yet again, about a plan to change my life. Scared to waste time and money on something that wasn’t going to turn out how I expected.

My body knew I wasn’t facing my fear but instead ignoring it and smothering it with over-the-top enthusiasm and forced confidence that could be shattered at the slightest hint of failure.

My brain was walking on eggshells this whole time, trying not to disrupt the wave of denial set into motion under the influence of caffeine and desperation.

I was, as they say, a hot mess.

So, there I was, a sweaty wreck, literally shaking in my boots. I must have stood there for an hour, while class was in full session down the hall. It would be too late for me to pop in and catch up now. Plus, the instructor had rules about being on time, so I would more than likely not be allowed to pop in and catch up even if I felt stable enough to do so.

I had panicked myself out of the opportunity to learn a new skill. Panicked myself out of three hundred dollars that I didn’t have to spare. Panicked myself out of this perfect plan.

The next few hours remain a blur to this day. I don’t remember leaving the bathroom or driving home or what I did when I got there. But at some point, in true form, I found myself back on the couch working on another perfect plan for my life. I’m still waiting to hear how that turns out.