One week, I’m assisting important people as they build bridges, so many bridges, from America to the rest of the world, trying to prove that our country cares about and can be a part of a global society. I’m writing emails, making phone calls, shaking hands, and thinking about jobs that will let me travel the world. I want to experience adventure. The next week, I’m smiling down non-working young mothers, trying to convince them to buy handbags from a station at two different holiday fair boutiques.
I listen to the woman in the green ruffled cashmere wrap talk about losing her live-in help to a job in New York; she understands she has to leave, but they really become part of the family, you know. She’s been breaking down in tears all day.
I try not to stare at that woman talk about fashion shows for children and how it’s really just impossible to find conservative children’s clothing in this city. Hello, she’s from the East Coast and just isn’t used to the lack of acceptable attire. This idea, for the children to model clothing at a private event, has been really well received and will probably become a biannual occasion. The spring show needs to be early, though, so people have time to order for Easter.
I make up ridiculous stories about the cute pregnant woman and her husband. He is totally ugly, but he does bring home neat stacks of very delicious center-cut bacon to his adoring wife and growing lot of children every night at seven sharp. They eat plenty of it every morning for breakfast and never have to break into the stored stash in the walk-in freezer they had installed when they moved into the house.
I’ve seen the same women all week. I’ve been in two different locations; they’ve been in at least three different outfits.
I look at them. I think about them. I laugh. I roll my eyes. I think about myself. I think about my own mother. I can’t stop my eyes from peeking at the booths filled with children’s clothing. I don’t try to keep myself from picking out the dresses and onesies I wouldn’t think twice about buying for my children if they were already living, instead of just being hidden twinkles in my unfound soul-mate’s eye. I make mental notes of what looks good on pregnant (and obviously just barely post-pregnant) figures.
I made it up that the woman in the green wrap was talking about her live-in help. I have no idea who was leaving for a job in New York. Whoever it was had become part of the family, though.
I didn’t make anything up about the fashion show for children.
That husband probably had a long day at work. His boss probably hates him and makes him ugly. I don’t know what his job is, how much money he makes, or even what he looked like when he met his cute wife. He could also have a charming personality, but, really, I just don’t know.
I still want adventure. Some of these women probably want adventure, too. But I also like little smocked dresses and pillows with monograms on them. I don’t ever want anyone to think that’s all I care about, though. That would be simply dreadful and entirely untrue.
Creating your life is so confusing. There are so many options. (Now I want to go back to Yogurtland, though just thinking about the ability to create your own delicious combination does make me feel better.) And here’s the kicker: who even knows about next week’s world? Not me, my friends, not me.