I started a new job this week. A “big girl job” in production. One that has salary and benefits and forty-to-sixty-hour work weeks. For those who pay attention to my life, you can image the great relief it has been, making this transition.
Relief, yes. Great, not yet.
I believe fate has decided to give me a raise in the career department, and a luxury tax on my relationship(s). In other words, I have been screwed by the gods who don’t believe a woman can have the job AND the man. Jokes aside, it’s starting to become too accurate. My female mentors have either been [extremely successful] workaholics with no partner, or have luckily found their soul mate in the second half of their life. Is that what I need to do? Hurt and bitch and moan until I’m forty, THEN live the dream while my boobs start to make friends with my shoes (who have *Dr. Scholl’s in them). Sure baby, let’s make love now that I met you ten years later than I should have. Boy, if only you could have seen my Victoria’s Secret back then!
Don’t get me wrong, I have accepted my twenties are about life-lessons and figuring yourself out, but then thirty comes and says, “Aw, that was cute, but this is how it really is.” What if you met someone whom you want to keep past these life deadlines (who can remember what my boobs used to look like)? What if you want to drink that soy milk for ten years without it going bad? What then? Do you dump it down the drain and hope the garbage disposal freaks out and spits it back up in your face (maybe not the best metaphor) or do you let it expire, as it travels down its own pipe? Personally, I’d want my soy milk back.
I sure as hell can count men I know who are successful, have the woman (or three), and I bet, didn’t have to think twice about it. Is it because women tend to be more patient or forgiving? Perhaps. Yet why do these traits need to be “punished”? I’m forgiving, so that means you can cheat on me again. I’m patient, so that means you can wait two weeks to schedule a hot date (which really just means beer and live hockey). I’m exaggerating, but not by much!
Bottom line is, I have got to find a way to break this spell some women-hating wizard put on our gender so long ago (Where was Harry Potter then?) that made it difficult to obtain both pleasures in life. I won’t give up trying. I won’t let bullshit dot my i’s. I won’t let silence cross my t’s. I will drink my expired soy milk, and be promoted, too. I hope you decide to do the same.
*By the way, what rock did I sleep under that missed when women under thirty needed to wear Dr. Scholl’s?! Some friends even started at TWENTY-TWO! Is this a repeat of those crazy “the government created AIDS” conspiracies, except against women’s feet!? I hope not, but it seems to be.