I was sitting with 4 of my coworkers for happy hour in the College of Medicine’s cafeteria listening to phenomenal singers belt out songs to karaoke tracks. The United Way was having a fundraiser and wouldn’t it be delightful to contribute to such a good cause. After 3 beers I joined the masses and sang a Whitney Houston tune, and then I returned to my seat and focused my attention on the electric-slide-dancing-nine-to-fivers after a few cocktails. I began to sweat.
I realized that I don’t want this life. I don’t want to be 38, (I have another 10 years before this happens, but you see where this is headed, don’t you? Don’t you??) dancing in a cafeteria-turned-night club with my coworkers after spending all day sitting behind a desk. I don’t want Corporate America. I don’t understand its inner workings, and I don’t have the desire to understand. I DO, however, understand that there is a reason it exists and that there are people in this world who enjoy this life…and are extremely good at it. My best friend thrives in it, and I envy her that. But I am not made of this stuff…the annual reports, clients, slacks (this word makes my tongue numb) with vertical creases and starched button down shirts, business lunches and casual Fridays.
I am casual Tuesday and a Sloppy Joe for lunch while rocking on a porch swing. I’m jeans and t-shirts with paint stains and scarves in my hair because I don’t feel like brushing it. I don’t wear a watch in a world that’s chronically in a hurry to be fashionably late.
I know I can play the part, and if I do say so myself, I play it pretty damn well. My character would surely be signed on for another season or two. But I’m restless, and yet there are bills to be paid.