I love my job.
I love that I work for a non-profit. I love that I work in the arts. I even love the building I work in.
I love that my job requires me to have a working knowledge of carpentry, knots, basic wiring, how to sew body parts onto a styrofoam dummy, how to make canned pears into fish fillets, and how to get hard water stains out of crystal.
I love that I can fix almost anything with hot glue an gaffers tape.
In five minutes.
In the dark.
And I love the people I work with. There are certainly exceptions, but most people in the arts are educated, passionate, and excellent bakers.
And they’re fun to talk to. College degrees and rich inner lives make for great conversation.
Which is why I owe them somewhat of an apology. See, for the last 2.5 years my topics of discussion have revolved around 1) how tired I am. 2) how awesome my kid is. 3) How awful my kid is. 4) how tired I am, and 5) something I can’t remember – sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night.
They’ve all been very patient with me – nods, smiles, and commiseration abound.
But believe it or not, effort is being made. I think the rate at which I mention what time I wake up has dropped from 48 times per hour to about 30. I’ve been trying to cultivate opinions on things like Downton Abbey, awards shows, certain Kardashians, and those clowns in congress. What a bunch of clowns.
Other parents know what I’m talking about here. It’s hard to express how one can become so fixated on something. But it’s kind of like waking up one morning with a third arm, an exoskeleton and a French accent. It takes a while for these new developments to become mundane.
So bear with me. Working together we can get through this.
Which reminds me – my son did this awesome thing at 5:30 this morning we were…wait. No! No, I won’t!
Sorry about that. So, how about that Glee, huh? Those plucky underdogs sure can sing.