Two Boobs: That’s What They Take us for (pt 2)

Cute & Functional Craft and Sewing Room Ideas - Sweet Red Poppy

But, there’s always mom and dad’s house and your old room; however, it is now filled with sewing supplies and fishing equipment. They manage to put a futon in the corner and it’s a little better than sleeping on the streets and WAY better than rooming with vegans. After a few months of french fries and smelling like fish pheromone, you decide college is the place for you. So, you convince your parents to help out through a nice mix of logical persuasion and suicide threat and you go to college; but, it looks less like Animal House and more like Woody Allen’s Interiors. Yeah, I know you didn’t see Woody Allen’s Interiors but, now, when you do, you will bust a gut when you remember reading this. You swear to God, your parents and yourself that you will study unbelievably hard and maintain a straight ‘A’ average; but, someone pushes a pair of boobs in your face and you settle on a going for an extra year and a ‘C’ average.

And, you find a good job… one where french fries aren’t a large component of the company’s benefits package. And, now you CAN afford the loft in the county that smells like cat pee… take THAT vegans! You can even afford to go out and meet young professionals… and your body says that you are about ready to bless the world with a younger smaller version of yourself, but only after you find the perfect partner. Sadly, the only perfect partners are dating people whose apartments don’t smell like cat pee; and, you suddenly realize that you aren’t all that… and, at work, you are again the dumbest biped in the room.

You resolve to do better… to unscramble this peanut-oil covered Rubik’s Cube we refer to as “life”. Then, you remember all the other times you resolved to do better. But, this one is different because no one is pushing a pair of boobs into your face like the other times. And, you realize that you miss that and it becomes the incentive to learn your job and how to talk in a soothing manner so as not to excite the boss. It doesn’t take long to get good at something and soon you are managing a group of people that is way smarter than you and way more motivated and you realize that you are safely ensconced in “middle management” which is better than outright suicide by at least seven percent.

AND, you find love. You don’t know how you did it and, at first you feel that this is some kind of cruel joke; but, six months later and you are still together. So, you decide to get married before someone else comes along and steals this satisfactory and downright acceptable mate. After marriage, you work things out… such as, which one of you is the sadist in the relationship. Remember that if your spouse is kind-hearted and loving, by New Construction Homes in Virginia | Zillowprocess of elimination, you are the sadist… but, you kind of suspected that all along, didn’t you? Your two salaries combined allow you to buy a house you cannot afford and all the furniture and art work that four maxed out credit cards can provide. You have a baby… then another… and suddenly you’ve reached the end of your life, if you are a spider or a fish; however, you are a mammal and you know you have to raise and protect your young until they are able to go out on their own. And, judging from how long it took to make you independent, you’ve got a long life ahead of you.

Despite your better efforts, your kids get older and, sadly, so does your spouse. You find yourself less satisfied with life or your spouse is less satisfied with life and both of you blame you. Separations, like death from gangrene, don’t happen right away. It might take years of unhappiness before the limb is sawn off. And, remember… it you aren’t the one doing the sawing, by process of elimination, you are the gangrenous limb. But, the day finally comes when one of you says it out loud: “I want a divorce”.

Divorce opens you up to an entire universe of potential sexual partners. And, they will reject you utterly, which is devastating because their standards are much lower now. Your ex-partner will be remarried in about eleven months. You tell yourself that the marriage won’t last; but, you remember you said the same thing about Breaking Bad and the cell phone. Your own sexual relationships usually last until you run out of prescription pain-killers. You decide that it isn’t important that you have a relationship… you just want to concentrate on your children; but, they are adults, now, and being paid in french fries, just like you were. You try to give them advice but they don’t listen because young people never do and also because your loft smells like cat pee.

So, you decide to be the best damned middle manager you can be. You learn all about the company you work for… its history and culture. You inspire those under you to work harder than they’ve ever worked and to resent you more than they’ve ever resented anyone. You work so hard that you forget to check your email… which is a shame because they’d fired you five weeks ago. But, not to worry. You’ll find another job in no time because being a middle manager for a company that makes ball-bearings is a hot market.

And, you find one… and, it is a dignified position despite the fact that they pay you in Concerned_American on Twitter: "@AC360 @andersoncooper “Kiki”  @kayleighmcenany. Would you like fries with that?"  / Twitterfrench fries. It isn’t the job that’s important… it is LIFE. You resolve to see your kids more, except your youngest who is your immediate supervisor and kind of a prick. You want to build an extended family so that, when you retire, they will visit you and bask in the glow of your parenthood. And, you would have, if they’d only returned your phone calls…

So, you retire to someplace warm with other old people and you make friends and more friends when the first friends die. You don’t feel old. Yes, you are constantly in pain and nearly always home, but that makes it seem like the longest sick day ever. Meanwhile, your heart learns how to play dead and proudly shows off its new trick one morning at breakfast. A defibrillator brings you back, fooling you into thinking that your life has a purpose. So, you resolve to write your memoirs, even though you’ll be the least interesting character in them. But, you cannot find a publisher except that one that pays in french fries. You send a copy to each of your children but the only one who you hear from is your youngest who expresses surprise that you are no longer at work. As you sink into depression, your health deteriorates and you become bedridden. Your children come to see you. Your grandchildren visit but they spend most of their quality time with their phones. You are tired of the struggle and you let it all go… and you see ahead of you a bright light.

In the end, the nurse leans forward to pull the sheet up over your head and… for just one little instant, before you go to the afterlife, you feel two boobs being gently pushed into your face. And, you find yourself ready and willing to start the whole process all over again…

15 thoughts on “Two Boobs: That’s What They Take us for (pt 2)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s