I’m beginning to wonder if this whole job thing is as overrated as it seems. I’d much rather spend my days hanging upside down on the monkey bars eating popsicles and wiping snot on my shirtsleeves (mom always hated that). I don’t even care if I’m the sweatiest, dirtiest, most disgusting recesser on the block—complete with a fruit punch stache and mulch permanently adhered to my shoelaces. I would take my homemade cape and scepter and stand atop the jungle gym like Dumbledore. If any of my playground minions step out of line, I will promptly punish them with a hose shower out back. Kids hate showers more than they hate vegetables. I should know because I still hate showering but I’ll eat lima beans any day of the week.
My Peter Pan complex gets a little worse every day. Actually, it’s becoming less of a complex and more of a reality-crippling ailment. I would much rather color and finger paint all day than write press releases and create marketing plans. Actually, I’d rather stick crayons up my nose and finger paint in my eyes. I’ve sat at a desk for the past 17+ years of my life, why would I want to spend the next 40 at one? Not to mention I think staring at a computer screen has given me a lazy eye, so marrying for money is going to be out of the question once the Cyclops look ensues.
Some people are perfectly happy sitting at a desk all day staring into space and wondering what fascinating topics they can conjure up to discuss at the office Christmas party. Frankly, I’d imagine my role at the office Christmas party as being the drunken Santa Clause going around, kicking people in the shins and dispersing dreidels and other religious holiday-inappropriate gifts. I would be exponentially happier creating chaos within the workplace than controlling it. I sound a little like a sociopath version of Michael Scott, but I’m okay with that.
Parked in the Employee parking lot today is a pink ice cream truck. I’d like to know which MacGyver bus driver moonlights as an ice cream man (a.k.a. Dreamweaver) and how I can be a part of this lucrative business. I’m going to print out my resume and tape it to the windshield after work… along with a picture of me dressed in full ice cream woman uniform. I imagine a large black man idling the ice cream truck through Frenchtown playing “Do Your Ears Hang Low” while I stand on the roof making it rain with Push-Pops, Chocolate Éclairs, Spongebob Pops and skittles—just because I’ve always wanted it to actually rain skittles. I wouldn’t give two shits if I wasn’t paid for the products, the mere joy of seeing small African American kids catching packaged ice cream treats in their mouths would be enough. Hopefully DJ Ice-ee agrees with my business practices. If not, I’ll have friends in Frenchtown by then that can take care of him.