Career Girl
I was in the middle of nowhere this weekend. Actually, Indiana. Which could, as a state, be considered the middle of nowhere, seeing as how it is surrounded by Ohio and Illinois and Michigan and whatnot. An unenviable position, all things considered.
But, honestly, where I was in Indiana? Actually the middle of nowhere. Small town on the highway between Indy and a city out of state...which is any highway in the state, really. All highways lead to Indy, eventually. Terminus.
I was there visiting family, ostensibly. But I managed to schedule in visits with old friends from school while I was there. The first visit was with a guy I knew in college and hung out with for the entire four years. We even went with a big group on Spring Break together our senior year. He's managed to get himself engaged and I wanted to meet the woman he'd conned into doing laundry for him for the next forty years of her life. Poor thing, she doesn't know what she's in for. Honey, all I can tell you? If he's listening to Jimi Hendrix with the door shut, just let him have his alone time.
I hadn't seen him in four or five years and we made arrangements to meet at a restaurant in the town in which I was staying. A Mexican restaurant. In Indiana. And it was good! They've apparently decimated the avacado market in town, as everyone just buys their guacamole there instead of making it themselves. This is coming from my grandmother, who makes guac with sour cream, however, so take that info with a grain of salt.
I get a seat in a booth with my back to the window, so I can see them when they walk in the door. Of course, this means I can't see them as they're walking through the parking lot. So I'm sitting kind of sideways in the booth, looking out the window and, also, looking nervous. I have a habit of sitting in restaurants, waiting for people to show up when, in actuality, they are simply sitting on the other side of the restaurant, waiting for me.
In looking nervous, I apparently garner the attention of the other folks in the room, including a couple sitting at a table across the aisle from me.
"You waitin' for somebody, honey?" She's about sixty-five, white curly hair and really into her chips and salsa. Her husband, silent beside her, simply sips at his Coke through a straw.
"Yeah." I smile at her and drink some margarita. I'm the only person in the place drinking alcohol.
"You look a little nervous. Family?"
"No, a friend of mine I haven't seen in a while."
"From school."
"Yeah. We haven't seen each other in five years so I want to make sure I recognize him."
She then proceeds to ask me why I'm in town, who I'm visiting, where I'm from...all the good information traded at rest stops and gas stations and Wal-Marts across the country. She tells me about her kids and meeting her son's fiancee and driving around to visit relatives.
"You got kids?"
"No," I reply, looking out the window.
"Oh. You a career girl?"
"Um, I guess so, yeah."
A career girl. Is that what I am? I'm not married. I have no kids. I went to school for a really long time and now I work. But a career girl? Is that how I'd define myself? Am I Melanie Griffin in that movie? Am I the girl in the Dolly Parton song? Because I don't define myself that way, I don't think. But I don't really define myself much at all. I ask people what they do in order to get some idea of the kind of person they are. But I absolutely hate telling people what I do...mostly for the same reason. Because I don't want people to think I'm the kind of person that does the kind of work that I do.
If someone asked me what kind of person I was, "career girl" would be about the last way I'd describe myself. But to this woman, who had three kids and had been married for about 30 years and lived in BFE Indiana, that's exactly what I was. Funny how other's perceptions of you can be so far afield and yet so right on the money, all at the same time.
"Is your friend bald?" the husband asks.
I turn around and see my friend walking through the parking lot. He's given up the ghost and shaved his entire head.
"Yep. That's him. Thanks."
I meant to say goodbye to them when they left the restaurant but they slipped out before I could even register that they'd gone.
But, honestly, where I was in Indiana? Actually the middle of nowhere. Small town on the highway between Indy and a city out of state...which is any highway in the state, really. All highways lead to Indy, eventually. Terminus.
I was there visiting family, ostensibly. But I managed to schedule in visits with old friends from school while I was there. The first visit was with a guy I knew in college and hung out with for the entire four years. We even went with a big group on Spring Break together our senior year. He's managed to get himself engaged and I wanted to meet the woman he'd conned into doing laundry for him for the next forty years of her life. Poor thing, she doesn't know what she's in for. Honey, all I can tell you? If he's listening to Jimi Hendrix with the door shut, just let him have his alone time.
I hadn't seen him in four or five years and we made arrangements to meet at a restaurant in the town in which I was staying. A Mexican restaurant. In Indiana. And it was good! They've apparently decimated the avacado market in town, as everyone just buys their guacamole there instead of making it themselves. This is coming from my grandmother, who makes guac with sour cream, however, so take that info with a grain of salt.
I get a seat in a booth with my back to the window, so I can see them when they walk in the door. Of course, this means I can't see them as they're walking through the parking lot. So I'm sitting kind of sideways in the booth, looking out the window and, also, looking nervous. I have a habit of sitting in restaurants, waiting for people to show up when, in actuality, they are simply sitting on the other side of the restaurant, waiting for me.
In looking nervous, I apparently garner the attention of the other folks in the room, including a couple sitting at a table across the aisle from me.
"You waitin' for somebody, honey?" She's about sixty-five, white curly hair and really into her chips and salsa. Her husband, silent beside her, simply sips at his Coke through a straw.
"Yeah." I smile at her and drink some margarita. I'm the only person in the place drinking alcohol.
"You look a little nervous. Family?"
"No, a friend of mine I haven't seen in a while."
"From school."
"Yeah. We haven't seen each other in five years so I want to make sure I recognize him."
She then proceeds to ask me why I'm in town, who I'm visiting, where I'm from...all the good information traded at rest stops and gas stations and Wal-Marts across the country. She tells me about her kids and meeting her son's fiancee and driving around to visit relatives.
"You got kids?"
"No," I reply, looking out the window.
"Oh. You a career girl?"
"Um, I guess so, yeah."
A career girl. Is that what I am? I'm not married. I have no kids. I went to school for a really long time and now I work. But a career girl? Is that how I'd define myself? Am I Melanie Griffin in that movie? Am I the girl in the Dolly Parton song? Because I don't define myself that way, I don't think. But I don't really define myself much at all. I ask people what they do in order to get some idea of the kind of person they are. But I absolutely hate telling people what I do...mostly for the same reason. Because I don't want people to think I'm the kind of person that does the kind of work that I do.
If someone asked me what kind of person I was, "career girl" would be about the last way I'd describe myself. But to this woman, who had three kids and had been married for about 30 years and lived in BFE Indiana, that's exactly what I was. Funny how other's perceptions of you can be so far afield and yet so right on the money, all at the same time.
"Is your friend bald?" the husband asks.
I turn around and see my friend walking through the parking lot. He's given up the ghost and shaved his entire head.
"Yep. That's him. Thanks."
I meant to say goodbye to them when they left the restaurant but they slipped out before I could even register that they'd gone.
posted by Miss Head at
4:29 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home