It’s kind of a big deal, since I haven’t earned actual money in twenty two years. All this time I’ve been homeschooling, cooking, driving kids around, cleaning, keeping John happy, moving when the Navy tells me to, and generally not freaking out so that John can serve his country efficiently without worrying that I’m locking the kids out of the house so that I can smoke Capri cigarettes and watch Maury Povich in peace.
I’m bored now, though. And there’s dance to pay for. And Gwyn’s going to college in a couple of years and John is retired soon. Also, the ac went out on my 2006 Kia Sedona, and we’re not sure if we want to replace the ac in an eight year old mini-van, so….it’s a lot to think about.
If you’ve ever tried to look for work when you’re in your forties you know it’s an humbling experience. One, you don’t get many responses to the applications you submit. Two, it makes you rethink every decision you’ve made since college. And if that’s the case, you are LUCKY, because I didn’t go to college; hence, I feel extra humble.
I also feel old. I was already feeling vulnerable since I just found out that “Sleeping Angel” from the Fast Times At Ridgemont High just celebrated its thirty first birthday this week. I think I was sixteen or seventeen when that movie came out, almost an adult. Thirty one years ago.
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So while I was already feeling highly mature, during the orientation at my new job, I started to think of things that make me feel super, extra, highly mature:
- Every person sitting with me, with maybe one exception is young enough to be my kid. And the one exception could probably be my kid if the health clinic hadn’t offered free birth control.
- I can’t operate a combination lock. I don’t think they had them when I was young. I’m pretty sure we just rolled large dinosaur eggs in front of our lockers to keep thieves out.
- The dress code says “No cleavage.” An interesting fact: unless one is in spectacular shape, one’s cleavage rises about a half inch every year as one ages. I could blame my metabolism, but it’s really because I loath exercising so my boobs are getting bigger. Or taller, maybe? It’s kind of like how one’s butt seems to climb up one’s back, like a creepy fungus, as time passes. Anyway, hence the extra cleavage. At some point, I imagine that I will look provocative in a turtle neck. Provocative to old people, that is.
It’s all okay, though. I’m just so happy that someone found it in their hearts to call me and give me a chance. Stevie Nicks is still awesome, and I’ve got a few good years left before I need a Jazzy scooter and an AARP card. I’m going to bust my flabby butt and make some things happen.