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| or, more accurately, how the meek and powerless have failed to rise to the occasion!
today, a former elementary/middle school classmate came to the hospital cafeteria and recognized me as i took his money at the cash register, which was baffling to me since a) it's been more than ten years since we've seen each other and b) i like to believe that i am basically unrecognizable in the over-sized polyester uniform blouse and pleated pants.
he was wearing a white doctor's coat and seemed to be less awkward and better-looking than when we were prepubescents. while i searched for the correct buttons on the cash register, he said something about microbiology and labs. blah, blah, blah microbiologist blah blah blah money blah blah social prestige.
"so, what are you doing now?" he asked.
isn't it obvious?! i'm a cashier and still have pimples!
i was trying to think of how to casually mention some of my most recent accomplishments, but just then a man whose eyes pointed in two different directions wandered up to the register and asked where the beer was.
*
for all this complaining, i really do like the job. it's easy, and i get to sit in a tall chair and reapply hand sanitizer all day long.
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| i got myself a real redneck/white trash/blue collar job, y'all!
my coworkers all have names that were made up by their mothers and lives that come from the opening lines of a country western song. tired forty-year-olds wearing pants from the juniors department, cigarette burns up and down their forearms and missouri accents so thick that a foreigner probably wouldn't recognize it as english. the manager calls everyone hon and complains about the price of jell-o cups as she rings them up. "oh, hon, you can bet i would not pay fifty cents for that. fifty cents for jell-o? nuh-uh. no way, hon. no way."
so i stand there at the register for eight and a half hours, listening to my new coworkers complain about their children and exes and about how they personally feel like they would make pretty good stand up comedians, and i realize as the shift wears on that doctors have the worst diets in the world. they eat nothing but hostess cakes and french fries. you would think that the stethoscope hanging from their necks means "i know nutrition," but no. it doesn't.
it sort of makes the day pass faster if i pretend like i am on an unsexy, backwoods version of grey's anatomy or a similar, medical-themed show. on those shows, everyone is good looking and educated. in real life, people wear high-waisted pants and can't pronounce "hummus." on the shows, the doctors are polite to the cafeteria workers (who, for all they know, are secret geniuses like good will hunting: never assume a manual laborer is not a secret genius) and eat green, leafy things so they can keep sexy.
in real life, hostess cakes, fries, and...mean.
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| there are many different philosophies regarding when adulthood officially begins: our grandparents, raised in an era when ten-year-olds worked full-time to help support the family and got up before the sun rose to milk the cows, might consider a person grown up before she or he even hits puberty; the younger, more spoiled generations have casually pushed the expiration date of youth up to college graduation or the wedding day or even to the birth of the first child.
i would argue that all of these milestones are irrelevant along the path to maturity -- that the only true marker of adulthood is when a girl purchases her first business suit with shoulder pads.
that's right: i may have the emotional maturity of a middle schooler, the housekeeping skills of a four year old, and the sense of humor of a prepubescent male, but i stand before you today a true woman. never mind how many of those other milestones i've surpassed; today i went to a little secondhand shop and bought myself a brown polyester suit with high waistline, ample pockets, and, yes, shoulder pads.
before today, i'd always thought of shoulder pads as tacky and uneccesary (a mark of my previous childishness, no doubt), but now that i stand in front of the mirror in my sensible brown suit i feel as if, for the first time in my life, i am complete. my lack of professionalism is more than compensated for by my significant new shoulders. they are don't-mess-with-me shoulders. promote-me-to-CEO shoulders.
and now all i need is the job to go with 'em.
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| my landlord feels sorry for me because i am new to town and have no friends. he stops by periodically, sometimes offering to drive me places or give me items that might be useful. i tell him i don't eat meat and the next day he brings me a tupperware container of homemade chicken casserole. "no butter or milk was used in the making of this dish," he announces, clearly proud of himself. this is okay; he has fallen into the surprisingly common trap of believing that vegetarians eat white meat but not dairy.
(actually i eat fish and so am not a vegetarian but a pesca-something-ian.)
sometimes i spread all of my accomplishments and deeds out in front of me for inventory and think, geez, is this it? is this all i've got? wasn't there something else here? something is definitely missing. i check under the bed, where most missing things are, but only find a few pairs of old shoes and some dirty coins. no missing deeds, and definitely no missing accomplishments. nope, this is it. i am 25 years old and this is all i got.
it's not that i'm a failure -- as my mom once said (with barely concealed relief), at least i'm not on drugs or pregnant. that's a valid point. i'm not on drugs or pregnant, but i'm also not wildly successful. wouldn't that have happened by now if it were going to happen at all?
as it is, i'm doing as good as everyone else but no better. i don't mind being down here with the rest of you schmucks, but...well, you know. we all imagine great things for ourselves. | | |
| in my desperation for work, i did something this morning that i vowed long ago to gloria steinem and my own dear mother i would never do: before leaving my apartment to fill out more applications, i put on a low cut shirt, coated my eyelashes with dangerous levels of mascara, camouflaged my pimples (of which there are many, need i remind you), and crammed my sweatpant-spoiled legs into Tight Jeans. then, instead of biking the half-mile to the restaurants downtown, i drove my ailing old car, just so i wouldn't mess up my hair. having failed to find a job through the usual means (friendliness, impressive resume, availability, etc), i am trying a different, sexier approach. i am hoping what they say about men and cleavage is true, and that some sexually frustrated manager or owner will notice my clear skin and my car-preserved hair and let me in.
i have single-handedly set women back forty years today, i know, but if i'm not gainfully employed by the end of next week, i will have to move from the garage to the dumpster behind the garage -- and i'm not sure if it allows pets.
*
in this hour of loneliness i've taken refuge in the grocery stores, spending money i don't really have on items i don't really need, like dried cherries or sauerkraut. i go grocery shopping at least every other day (or at least i did, before my car broke down), finding especial joy in the bulk foods section, where you can fill little plastic baggies with oats or quinoa or raw cashews or dark chocolate covered almonds, set them on the scale, and print off labels that tell you exactly how much you've taken and how much it will cost.
those labels! almost as nice as friends!
*
all i can do is sit here and eat various flavors of kettle chips, which are on sale two for $4 at the hy-vee, and drink disgusting chardonnay, which is on sale for $5.99 at gerbes.
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