As I wrap up month #9 of unemployment, I decided that perhaps it’s time for a career change.
“What if I waitressed again?” I pitched to Doug. “Better yet, I’ll go to bartender’s school. I’ve always wanted to do that. Considering the hours I put into teaching, it probably pays more anyway. I could work nights, you could work days. We wouldn’t even have to pay for childcare!”
“You’re not going to be a bartender,” was his flat-out response. “Everyone would hit on you.”
“Please,” I rolled my eyes. “Today I found a zit and a wrinkle all at the same time. Who’s going to hit on me?”
Crickets. Clocks ticking. The distant snore of some guy snoozing away in Tokyo.
“Here’s the part where you disagree,” I coached.
He paused for a moment and said, “It’s a bar. Of course someone’s going to hit on you.”
I don’t know about you, but I stay married for the steady flux of adoring reassurance.