I knew I’d never last – I didn’t gain any weight. The manager told me on the first day of training, “Just so you know, you will gain weight working here.” I have a Mona Lisa smile for statements like that. It’s my only civil response to stupid assumptions. As a walking cliche, you get used to leveraging stereotypes and associated prejudices. I’m a blonde girl with a mohawk in The Seattle Times. I’m that chick with nice tits at the CSPC. I’m the quiet one at the dive bar. I’m a terrible singer at The Mecca. All of these things are me but I am not any of them.  No more than my hair is blue.

I should be more distraught by the loss of a job that came so hard won.  Unfortunately, I didn’t see this coming so soon.  The epic level of silent treatment by my coworkers became almost comfortable.  Every phone call was a refuge.  The strangers wanting to make reservations transported me directly to anywhere but there and I’d have civil interactions for as many as one or two minutes.  Hanging up the phone I’d dive back into whatever book I was reading.  Not hearing things in the interim got easier with practice.

It’s not that I didn’t get along with the people in the office.  The opposite, in some ways.  I can relate all too well to their shallow middle class struggles.  I remember all too well the days spent worrying about how many calories I’m eating.  Oddly, I identify with the gay millennial living in a post-Ru Paul era.  Making sure everyone knows how unique he is without the mess of actual struggle.  At least he has accountability, as opposed to the lazy single mother that complains about everything constantly.

Of course, in that office having a child is more important than work ethic.  I was reminded repeatedly that my lack of children makes me less of a real person.  I guess my mom was right, you aren’t really an adult until you’ve had kids?  I wish that came with some magical discount on my cost of living.  If not having dependents is suppose to make it easier to survive I must be doing it wrong.