Goldie:Didn’t even have time for coffee. First day jitters–I spent most of my time in front of the mirror, sucking it in from all angles.
Wow. That was an unabashed and utterly cringey truth, wasn’t it? Why am I telling the man I have a serious crush on that I stood in front of a mirror for an hour? I send another text, but as I do, his three dots dance.
Goldie:But I did put a packet of oatmeal in the microwave a minute ago. Don’t know if I’ll have time to eat it anymore
Atticus:Starting a new job on an empty stomach ain’t right
Smirking, I’m on the cusp of witty text banter when the message disappears, the phone screen filling with my mother’s name. And her photo.
If my stomach wasn’t upset before… “Hi, Mom,” I say around the sigh, desperate to flee from my insides. Sliding a Tupperware with salad into my lunch bag, I hold my empty bottle under the sink as it fills with water. “On my way out the door to my first day at Gonzo Auto, don’t have a lot of time. What’s up?”
She never calls this early. Usually, she’s still sleeping off the Gin at this hour. I swear she’s got some fucking sixth sense, always acutely aware of when I don’t need her bullshit and that’s when she pounces.
“Oh,” she says, making sure I feel her disappointment with just one word. “So you’re taking that job, then?”
“Mom,” I sigh, unable to keep it at bay. The microwave dings, and the packet of oatmeal I’d thrown in there a moment ago is done. I pad down the hall, and step in front of the floor length mirror one more time, hating how my face rests in a scowl when I talk to her.
“Goldie,” she says with a matching sigh.
I press my hand to my flat lower belly. It feels swollen. I suck my cheeks between my teeth and tilt my chin up, feeling like the woman in the mirror is a puffier, sadder version of what I feel like.
“I am giving this job a try. I have to move on.”
“Who says?” She sips something, and I doubt it’s coffee. “Oh, Goldie, you know I’m on your side. But I won’t lie to you just because you’re my daughter.” I roll my eyes. Has the woman ever told the truth? After all, isn’t this entire phone call based on the premise of care when in reality, it’s self-serving to preserve this bullshit image she’s been carving for both of us for years?
“You won’t find a better gig than the Brutes, not with your degree.”
When I toyed with the idea of not finishing my degree, all I heard was how I’d never have the career of my dreams without one. Once I finished my degree, the conversation changed to how limited my choices would be because of said degree choice.
I can never win.
Fuck, I don’t even want to “win” because that’s a stressful state to be in–always vying for the number one spot of everything. I just want to be respected.
Respect is easy to give, and yet sometimes I think my Mom believes she’d die if she had to give it.
“I have to go, Mom,” I say, hating that I can physically see my energy shift. In the mirror, my shoulders sag, and the perfect pencil skirt, blouse, and vest combo that I felt so goddamn good in just a few minutes ago now looks and feels… off. Too tight, itchy, suffocating.
“Oh okay, already no time for me,” she says, and I swear to whoever is up there, it takes all of my strength not to say anything back to that. I don’t keep quiet for her–I do it for me. Because fighting with her before my first day is only going to hurt me.
“I’ll call you later, Mom,” I tell her, and then, without waiting for a passive-aggressive goodbye, I simply end the call.
It’s too late, though. Her energy worms its way through my existence, making me feel so… “fuck!” I shout, pressing my wrists to my temples as I squeeze my eyes closed.
I’m so tired of this loop I’m in. Up and down, all the fucking time. Tears blur my vision, but I swipe beneath my eyes quickly so I don’t mess up my makeup. It’s my first day of work, not my first day of fucking kindergarten. I have no business standing around crying like a baby.
I open and close the microwave door to get it to shut up and leave the oatmeal inside to die a slow death. But in truth, it’s oatmeal. It’s not like I’m walking away from a chocolate croissant.
With my lunch bag full and zipped and my purse over my shoulder, I pull my hair back into a neat, low ponytail, roll on some red lipstick, and leave. In the fifteen seconds it takes for me to get down the narrow apartment stairs, I convince myself it’s going to be a good day.
The first day of a new Goldie.
I’m going to forget about Reynold, the Brutes, my mother, and every single other thing in my life. I’m going to make this job my bitch, rise to the top, and thrive.
Who knows? Maybe HR is a better fit for me. As I push open the door to enter the hall to the deli, I’m giving myself a mental pat on the back for being so open to this job when a few weeks ago, I really did think I was too good.
I’m not, though. And that thinking over the years has gotten me to this place that I believe and hope is my rock bottom.
I’m not too good for this job. I’m not too good for anything or anyone. We’re all just people trying to find who and what we love and live. The longer I act like her, the longer my life looks like hers.