Crushed

by

Jul 3, 2007

I’m settling in here with more ease than I thought I would; work is going swimmingly and I find myself in a state of nearly constant amusement. 

Let me qualify that:  these days I find my life an endless parade of absurdity and I can’t help but see the humour in that, though I deal with the depths of human failings, outright depravity and evil on a constant basis. 

And I’m paying to go to work:  my salary does not even begin to cover my medical expenses.

That being said:  this is my metier and my daily bread.  And quite a privilege besides.  I can’t believe they pay me to do this job.  This is a labour of love.

Observation and experience tell me that I either laugh or I develop a substance abuse problem -- this job is as high stress as it comes and a release valve is required.

I choose to laugh.

While I continue in my unrelenting ambition to wither in loveless spinsterhood, I have been getting out now and then, mostly in a futile attempt to retain what rudimentary social skills I possess.  I have been keeping company with the Fireman infrequently -- but there is nothing remotely romantic involved in the exercise (at least not on my part).  I’m looking at it more as an anthropological adventure:  I just cannot predict the things that will come out of this man’s mouth.  Usually his pronouncements are so bizarre I’m convinced he’s kidding but given his behaviour, I’m forced to consider the possibility that he may, in fact, be entirely serious in his attitudes. 

I like him because he makes me feel like I’m Margaret Mead.

He is well aware of the fact that I spend a fortune each month on medications, as I have no benefits through work and there is not an insurance company in the world who will touch me.  Recently, I was presented with the opportunity to move (again!) about 3 hours north for a job that would guarantee me full benefits.  It was tempting for that reason and that reason only.  I went for the interview and spent the morning before it walking around the town.  By the time I’d wandered down the one main street, I had resolved that no force on earth (even benefits) could persuade me to live there:  it made Mayberry seem like The Eternal City.

Upon my return, I discussed the day with the Fireman.  He came up with the following solution:  since I spend $5000/month in meds, he suggested that I marry him in order to access his benefits.  Then I could pay him $3000 a month for the privilege of sharing his home and still save over $24,000  a year!  What girl could ask for more?  I was sure he was joking but no, he was in complete earnest.  Somewhat startled (and more than a little amused), I declined his proposal (bringing the total number of times he has asked for my hand up to 4).  When I mentioned this to my friend at work, she advised me to agree and then tell him I’d sleep with him twice a month -- at $3000.00 a pop.

I’m not quite sure why I continue to put myself through this, though the entertainment value is considerable.  He’s a pleasant enough fellow, though his views on women would be more typical in a man born 400 years ago.  Women’s suffrage is a concept that hasn’t quite permeated his consciousness and I don’t expect it will ever make much of an impact.  Conversing with him is akin to participating in a science experiment.

He, on the other hand, seems quite determined to march me down the aisle.  Not, I hasten to say, because he’s besotted with me.  He has shown no interest whatsoever in my finer feelings and hasn’t expressed any admiration for my character or my form (though he often opines that I have a “spectacular rack”). 

Nope -- given the conversations I’ve overheard him have with his friends, I suspect that the Fireman is of the opinion that I am A Good Catch.

To him, I look good on paper.  (I get that, but it makes me smile.)

One day as we were on our way to Home Depot (he’s still renovating my place -- my mama didn’t raise no fool), his cell phone rang.  “No, I can’t make it today,” he said.  “I’m with that girl I told you about -- The Lawyer.”  At times, I doubt he even recalls my name -- I am “That Lawyer” to his friends and his family -- he’s even spoken of me to his parents (a chilling development) and they have urged him to pass along their regards to “That Lawyer you’re seeing”.

While I admit that while I am within his visual proximity, he does presumably “see” me, I struggle with the terminology in any other sense of the term.

Till next time,

Morrigan