Fair warning, if you don’t like pouters, then find that little red box with the x up in the corner and go check your email or your Facebook instead of reading on, ‘cause there’s fixing to be a major pout up in here. When I was little my mother would say, “You better get that bottom lip in or someone’s going to step on it.” Well I’ve got it out right now, Momma- at least metaphorically speaking. I’m a little embarrassed to admit why I’m feeling so crotchety this morning, because in “today’s economy” I should “just be glad I have a job” and “besides, who do I think I am, the Queen of Sheba?” to be going around all waaaah and pouting because I have to work. There it is- the sand in my oyster, the pit in my cherry, the pain in my well, you get the idea- I’m pouting because I’m here (at work) and not there. Today there is at Audrey’s house, playing with my little darlin’ grandbaby. Other days it could be at home, in Texas, at the store, or wherever I'm not when I’m here at work. It's not always this bad. The truth is there are some days I’m fine with “working outside the home.” I come to work, I sit in the chair, I do the job. I like the people I work with. I have a job, in a library for Pete’s sake- what more could a person ask for? Really, what more could I ask for? Answer, anyone? You there, man with the blue face paint and plaid skirt waving your hand in the air. What’s your answer? Yes, that’s it. Freedom!
Freedom to go to the bathroom without reporting to someone that I’m going. Freedom to sit outside in the sun whenever the notion hits. Freedom to wear jeans and sneakers and no makeup. Freedom to plan a trip without consulting the calendars of at least 3 other people. Freedom to read a book, cook all day, play with the dog, visit my mother, do a crossword puzzle, do nothing, or maybe hold a baby who grows and changes with each tick of the clock. If this yearning for autonomy that wells up in me every few weeks marks me as selfish, shiftless, or lacking in character, then I stand convicted, and plead only that I tasted too many precious years of freedom to easily swallow this poor substitute.
I’m pouting, it’s true. I said I was going to right off, so don’t act so surprised. I don’t want to work. Not entirely accurate- I don’t want to go to work. Don’t you feel the same sometimes? The world is out there- throbbing with energy, glowing with potential- and here we sit, exchanging time for dollars. (OK, I feel compelled to confess at this point that there were many a time when I wasn’t working, many a, that I squandered hours at home watching Ina Garden make meals for Jeffrey or one of her numerous successful, gay friends in the Hamptons, or other such frivolity, instead of being out there sucking the marrow from life.) But that was before I truly realized the full value of this precious thing called freedom. One would think that after four years of holding a job, or, more accurately, being held by one, I’d have reconciled myself to this reality. And to a degree I have. I’m proud to add my (paltry) wage to the coffer each month, and am really grateful for the insurance that comes with it which bought John his nice new knee, his nice new shoulder, and his equally nice other new knee, not to mention the (nice, I'm sure) shoulder we’ll buy him in the future. He’s worked so hard for us all these years, I really don’t mind helping him pull that sack for a while, as my brother would say. So working is not without its rewards, I must admit. But still, when the sun is beaming like it is today, and Audrey calls to tell me Lillian is so extra cute this morning she has to close her eyes or risk having her pupil’s seared from looking at her too long, I really want to pull a William Wallace, stand up, and claim my freedom- but without being eviscerated by a man in a hood, of course.
“The prisoner wishes to say a word.”
“Freeeeeeeeeeeeedddddddddddddddddooooooooooooommmmmmmm!
