I’m a working woman, not a career woman

I hate people assume that because you’re single, childless, and over 30 that you’re a career woman. Hey, sister – I may not be married or have children, but I don’t have a must-come-first high-flying fabulous corporate career either. Why is it that woman almost always try to justify why or how they live? There’s no right or wrong way, and in the end we all die alone – right?

Well, that’s exactly what I snapped at the barista when she politely asked me how work was. She didn’t even mention the word “career”, but I gave her the speech anyway. At the time, I thought I was making some sort-of feminist argument, but looking back on the conversation, all I successfully argued is that I have no particular substance to my life: no significant other, no children, no cool career… nada.

Shaken from my sudden outburst (I must be getting my period), I grabbed my coffee and headed outside for a calming ciggie. In an attempt to light my cigarette, I spilled my entire coffee down my shirt. Fuck, a fucking flat white is fucking hot. Twenty seconds later, I’m sheepishly in front of the barista again. This time, she didn’t ask me about work.

I didn’t have time to go home and change (running late…), so I buttoned up my jacket (brilliantly hiding the coffee stain) and headed into the office. Fingers crossed everyone will be so engrossed in their own loathing of Mondays that they won’t notice my run-in with it. God I hate Mondays. Unless it’s a public holiday… in which case, I hate Tuesdays.

Not that I’m unhappy with my job. I’m good enough at it to keep it, and I like it enough to stick around. Still, I spend about 30% of my day (ok 60%) wondering what I’m going to eat at my next meal, and wondering if I should make it myself or order-in. (Order-in every time)

So where do I spend all this time thinking about food? In a small cubical office in front of a computer with unlimited internet access (perfect for looking up a range of recipes I’ll never use). For the remaining time at the office, I work as a writer on a small domestically produced afternoon soap. You know the kind… its premise centers on a small community of narcissistic “well-wishers” who sleep with each other’s husbands. It’s actually a pretty good gig – regular pay and bearable work hours. When I was in school I got given detention for making up stories, and now I get a paycheck. Not bad. 

My shirt has really started to reek. Old milk smells so bad… like puke. Oh god - why do I even drink this stuff? Seriously wondering if I can get away with wearing no shirt under my jacket for the day…