Working Class Chic

It’s 9 o’clock at night, I’m eating a grilled cheese sandwich off of a paper towel and drinking lukewarm San Pellegrino straight from the bottle.  As an appetizer, I housed a stale glazed donut and washed it down with a swig of V8 Splash, you know, so that I can get an 1/8 of a serving of vegetables without even chewing.  I’m the epitome of class. I’m what they call: “working class” chic. 

Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.  I need the word “chic” to be used when describing my current state of life.  Because otherwise I’d call it “hot mess with dark circles.”  Or "painfully pale and breaking out, despite departure from adolescence."

And I have no one but myself to blame for this madness—I’m the one who says yes to everything.  I’m the one who brilliantly decided NOW was the time to go back to school.  And work a full time job (that’s really like two full time jobs glued together and pretending to be one).  I’m the one who joins committees for a living.  And volunteers constantly.  You know, in my head it seems so logical.  And before all the meetings and events start, I always think I'll have so much free time.  Then bam!  I find myself sneaking cheese danishes out of morning meetings to ensure that I have something to eat for lunch, readjusting my spanx in the middle of parking lots (because I don't care who sees me anymore), and running perpetually 20 minutes late to life (okay, maybe 30).  I live on coffee, which translates to 24-7 coffee breath (and asking everyone, even strangers, for gum).  I have tote bags that could hold toddlers.  Like seriously.  And a hell of a tough right shoulder (from hauling my entire office around in said tote bag).   

It's G-L-A-M-O-R-OUS.  

I have these memories of tagging along with my dad to all of his committees and meetings and boards (I come by this lifestyle naturally, you know), thinking to myself how much fun it all was.  Everyone seemed so pleasant and it seemed like such a fun way to spend time—hanging out around a big table (like a dinner party!) with all your best friends.  I thought meetings were awesome.  And that everyone around these tables actually liked each other (I guess I couldn't smell bullshit when I was a kid).  And some of these meetings even had snacks.  Which was an ultimate plus for someone like me who lives for snack food (mmm, cheese & crackers).  Oh how important meetings made me feel when I was eighteen and got to—say something!  Or better yet, provide a HANDOUT!

And, oh, how my feelings have changed.  I mean, the meetings aren't so bad, but I'm starting to wonder how anything ever gets done.  These meetings pretty much require that we take work home so that we can do the work we should have done at our desk (but got stuck in meetings).  It's a tough life in the big city.  

Yesterday was my 27th birthday.  It seems that not so long ago I was navigating how to diplomatically accept the Barbie I didn’t really want from the person I really, really didn’t want to come to my birthday party while my dad played happy birthday on the accordion.  Back then, it was okay to ask everyone to make you the center of attention—it was expected, even.  But once you hit –oh, say twenty or twenty-five?—it suddenly becomes a bit unsavory to expect everything and everyone to bend to your every whim on your birthday. 

Plus, I can’t ever find the option on my time card that gives me paid leave on my birthday…without getting what the French call “le let go”.  So, alas, I’ve accepted my role as an adult (bitterly) and feel that I did the right thing yesterday: I worked a full eight-hour day.  And then I went to class for five hours.  And wrote a paper.  And studied for an exam.  And have been feeling mighty sorry for myself ever since.

I spent the morning with some of my favorite kids under ten.  Even though we were busy doing important things like taking the MSA (the wretched Maryland state exams that these poor kids spend the whole year preparing for and only a few miserable hours taking), I still had a nice chance to chat with them while we waited for it all to start.  We talked about football, Monique and the Oscars, chocolate chip cookies and cats—just the kind of conversation everyone should have before 9 am with kids who still think an opportunity to play "7-Up" is the bomb-diggity (and who would roll their eyes to hear me say "bomb-diggity"). 

In the middle of our talk about cats and dogs I had one of those Billy Madison moments where I wanted to shake their faces and warn them about the perils of adulthood; to hold fast to the joy and lightness of childhood.  And to enjoy the shit out of their next birthday party.  But, people get arrested for shaking kids faces these days, so I guess they’ll just have to figure it out for themselves.