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PAISLEY
Since I was a small kid, I’ve always had this gift of never being on time. I was born late. I started school late. Hell, I even walked the graduation stage late. I could’ve planned it years ahead of time, but the reality is that arriving on time was just some talent I lacked, even straight to the core of my mind.
That being said, you would think I’d plan accordingly to get to the airport. Spoiler alert—I did not.Now, I’m scrambling to get through security, hoping the gate attendant doesn’t lock me out of my expensive flight.
In college, the coming of summer break always feels like the coming of some extreme natural disaster. Every student exudes this almost insouciant energy. It’s contagious but overbearing in the worst way. Nevertheless, I guess Iamhappy for some people. Summer isn’tonlya moment of freedom but also a chance to return to the life you lived before moving to some random town—hoping nothing egregious happens 5
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before you can return to your parents.
Before you leave home, there’s always an afterthought of regret. Maybe you’re scared things will never be the same, or you won’t be able to conform to the re-brand that most teens do when they officially leave the nest. Getting a second chance to be who you’ve always wanted to be is exciting. No worries or cares thatcould intervene. It’s also an opportunity to behave ungodly if that’s what you’re into.
For me, none of these scenarios fit. Instead, it’s more of the opposite experience. Coming to Denver was once in a lifetime.
It isn’t an everyday occurrence for someone of my skill to get into one of the world’s most prestigious culinary schools.
It’s a dream that I’m eternally grateful for, of course. Yet, it’s still dreamlike. The first reason is that I’m mediocre at best when I’m side-by-side with kids from Paris or Atlanta. That’s only two places, but the list goes on to name some of the most significant places with fantastic cuisine. Some I’ve never even considered, and others I’ve made time and time again.
Regardless, I’ve never been tested quite like I have while living in Denver. I mean that in good ways and traumatizing ones as well. For starters, my teacher is equivalent to what would have been if Gordon Ramsey and John Taffer had created offspring. Any aspiring chef would think that’s the next man’s dream, but reality proves the truth issofar from it. It’s my latest reoccurring nightmare that I can’t seem to run away from.
I haven’t been able to express my feelings much, seeing as I don’t have any friends here. Plus, every time Ihavetried to make any, it comes off as some weird sin to interact with.
Everyone has a constant, competitive motive with their words, to the point where I’m not even sure who or what is genuine 6
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anymore. It’s closer to boot camp than it is to school, and that makes me want to be here all the less. It makes every second unbearable. The more I can’t interact with my family or friends back home, the more time I spend missing them andopportunities to talk to them, and the more I regret the moment I decided this was best for me.
It takes more than letting down my pride to admit that. I feel embarrassed that I insisted to everyone in my vicinity that this was an essential career move.
I am not only missing out on almost every exciting event in Jersey, but it’s much more than that. I miss the feeling of never knowing what’s next—just like old times. No rules, no adults making life so severe, and especially no weird, loser line cook wannabe’s making passes at me no matter how I reject them. Everything here is just predictable, down to the people.
I might be the only one to say it, but it was never cute and probably won’t ever be. Not with a fifty-year old man yelling at us in the ambiance. I’m not sure how someone can find time to flirt when we have fifteen minutes to make something out of a cow’s ball sack, mozzarella cheese, and an onion. Tasty, I know.
Maybe that’s an additional reason why this place has done nothing but aggravate me. If I’m being raw and honest, I don’t feel like the same old Paisley I’ve always been. It’s only been a year and a half, but all of my sense of self is gone. I haven’t bloomed or become better. Not in my eyes. It’s as if I were a big, vibrant flower, and now I’m wilted and lack color.
Usually, I’d have my parents around to encourage me, but the phone calls don’t do me any justice. Texting hasn’t helped 7
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at all, either. You certainly can’t feel any feelings there. I appreciate my family more than anything, but the physical aspect of it all is what I’m longing for. That’s something you can’t replace when it comes to loved ones. No matter how hard you try.
I keep hoping that maybe this is just some fluke in my life.
Still, the excruciating part of it is that the person who was supposed to be here with me is miles away, probably in a drastically different state of mind—a state that has nothing to do with picking up a skillet. Every minute that passes is another minute that I wonder if he still thinks about me. All I can hope is that I still hold a strong title in his life.
Joshua has never ignored me. However, it’s not okay that I’m bold enough to make such allegations against him whenIcan’t respond or call back faithfully, either. Unfortunately, one missed call leads to a missed message, and then, before you know it, you haven’t spoken in nearly a year. It’s arguable that that’s just how college works. I have to disagree entirely with that.
That’s not how Josh andIwork.
Josh has been my best friend for as long as I can remember breathing. Our parents went to school together, and we were both born around the same time—Josh just a few months after I was born. I never had to want a companion because he was always there. That made leaving all the more harrowing.
It sounds very cookie-cutter, but it isn’t. Josh’s mom and dad got a divorce a few years back, and ever since then, he has behaved differently. Different stride and a calculated choice of words. Be that as it may, he does it charmingly, making people want more of him. He never shares, though.
