Popination Resuscitation
a series of unhinged personal essays disguised as pub reviews. Today: the bar at J. Alexander’s.
On Sunday, me and the hubby and his two kids came out to this restaurant for a special Father’s Day lunch, and as we enjoyed ourselves in the restaurant section of the place, Husband remind me that the bar here looks very cool. So I thought I’d return by myself to the bar area the next day (which is why I’m a day late with this Popoination. Sorry).
It was, I think, maybe a week ago? that I remarked to my husband that I never but never would have thought I’d end up in my 50s in an office park-y suburbish neighborhood, with two cars and two kids. None of that was on my even wildest radar. Now, it’s true that the cars and the kids aren’t technically mine, but I do finally have my driver’s license (I’ve Mused about this in a previous Popination), and of course those of you who’ve had or are step-parents yourself will understand how much an important parenting role a step-parent can play in the life of a kid. And so. Here I sat, at this slick and classy bar that was beginning to trickle full of middle aged upper class folks, pondering yet again what impostor syndrome means, not as an eccentric and grungy starving artist, but one of those very same middle-aged well to do greyhairs.
I mean, also with the eccentricity and the flowing clothes and funky shoes and extensive visible tattoos and a silver necklace with the scrolled word ‘cunt’ dangling from it. Managing the Insta of my vaudeville style variety show I head. But. Still. It still smacks of a conflicting dichotomy to me, as much as it’s true that humans do contain multitudes. But I digress. Or do I?
J. Alexander’s
…is kind of a sprawling building lodged in the huge parking lot of the Greenwood Village (Centennial? Englewood?) Guitar Center and Michael’s and etc. You know; that same lot that I took you to when we went to Rock Bottom Brewery together. It’s just across a stretch of parking spots from Rock Bottom, and has the same sort of angular exterior and elaborate landscaping that its brewery counterpart does. Unlike Rock Bottom, though, J. Alexander’s is a more high-end kind of place: a really good steak and decent sushi type place. You know the type.
Inside, the restaurant actually reminds me quite a bit of the other posh-ish restaurant we frequent, the Cherry Creek Grill. It’s maze-like in the seating portion and has a long cool bar that’s a sort of separated out section. It’s dimly lit and its servers are all elegantly black-clad and obviously very well trained. In J. Alexander’s though, instead of the bar being dead center (as it is in the Grill), it’s a different doorway almost like a whole ‘nother wing. I have been here often enough for nice lunches or dinners with friends or family, but this was the first time I took the right turn into the bar area, instead of the left into the restaurant. It was pretty exciting in sort of a magic-portal way, like that one Doctor Who episode with Donna? Remember that one? Anyway.
The bar was long and sweepingly curved, wooden and softly lit by funky lamps. The barstools were creamy leather (fake leather? maybe, but it felt real) and the bar itself faced a long wall of picture windows. It was a pleasant atmosphere, and the courteous yet warmly friendly bartender completed the comfortable and pleasant effect.
They did have a couple taps and a decent wine list, but wine hasn’t been treating my digestive system that great lately, and I wanted something better than just a tasty beer the like of which I do all the time at home. So I opted for a cocktail. Two, actually:
Okay so I don’t remember what either cocktail was called, only that one of them had bourbon and another used a very high quality rye, and that they both incorporated bitters as well as bitter tasting liqueurs or spirits like Fernet. They were both similar in that they were sorta old-fashioned-like, without being too sweet. Almost like something Sazerac-esque (say that five times fast).
Since my OG opera house overview of impostor syndrome kicking in as I first was exposed to my husband’s world of upper class and even posh joints, I’m slowly becoming accustomed to being myself in places like this. It’s no longer such a stark contrast between who I am and what these places are like. I’m much more comfortable existing here, not pretending to be someone I’m not. I’ve learned since that opera house piece how to find that balance between the weirdo crunchy starving artist and the elegant old lady that’s a regular at these places. I have learned where my weirdness can land well in a posh place, and, hey: since being with my husband, I’m no longer a starving artist anyway.
It’s funny – if you’d told my teen/young self that I’d end up here (in life: office park land, two kids, two cars, a husband), I’d say you were crazy. Not this specific man, necessarily, though: we knew and liked each other in high school, though we never dated. If I were to tell my teenaged self that I ended up married to him, I’d echo a mutual high school friend when I told her about it: ‘Oh, yeah! Duh. Of course you did.’ But yanno? It’s a good life, all in all. Let me know if you’re interested in a more day-in-the-life type essay, and I’ll oblige, too. Not that my job has gotten better at all. In fact, it’s looking quite a bit more precarious these days, if you can imagine that being possible.
In fact, it’s looking more and more plausible that I may not have a job anymore at all, contingent or precarious or no. At the last faculty meeting, we were informed that enrollment was way down and therefore course offerings would be much scarcer than they have been. And this department employs only adjuncts for all its faculty. Which of course means that none of us are getting fired, just that most of us probably won’t be offered any classes anytime soon. And yes, I’ve been teaching there since 2002, but seniority means nothing to an adjunct’s status. I’m not holding out any illusions that I’ll have a job there again – after all, I already haven’t been given any summer courses to teach, and have heard nothing from my superiors. It was only a matter of time, I suppose.
I’m feeling quite complicated and conflicted about this: on the one hand, higher ed is imploding and has been for years now, at an exponential rate, so I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s a flimsy structure, adjuncting, that today’s universities have built their ivory towers on, and if it’s getting shaky now, it only makes sense. I’m not even necessarily upset. But I do mourn what the job and what my longer career could have been (but never was), and more than that: my identity is a little weird right now, as I’m not fully comfortable being this dependent on my husband. If – or, I should say when – the other shoe drops, I’ll be even more dependent on him than I already am. Which we’ve talked about before, and have been ever since I made the decision to quit [REDACTED] University back in 2022. But my fierce independent nature is cringing a little all the same.
But, I’m sure that, just like I’ve progressed beyond impostor syndrome, I’ll get used to accepting support, and even better, to continue to discover what my support and contribution to this household looks like. Two kids, two cars, a husband. A housewife. Doesn’t sound so bad, actually.
