My co-workers don’t get my humor.
Which could be the result of two things:
1. I am not funny.
2. They are not as sarcastically evolved as me.
The correct answer is obvious.
I asked the M.O.D. (Mom, that stands for ‘Manager On Duty’) to take a picture of me with my orange rubber gloves and toilet scrub brush tonight. She asked me if it was for some erotic fantasy I might have.
I cocked one eye and responded,
“No. But now that you mention it…”
Just kidding. I gave up fantasies after the match.com jerk off from India ‘lost’ my number and his wits.
What I was thinking about was how I went from scrubbing urinals at age 22 in a hostel in Portland to working with meth addict teenagers to stocking canned goods at Trader Joes to making commercials with Don King to being a personal assistant and back to scrubbing urinals.
As I tried to scrub the man stench out of the bathroom tonight, I had a momentary flash of awareness:
I was not destined for greatness.
Please don’t argue this fact.
Not everyone gets to be fabulous like Carrie from Sex N the City or my friend Sally who is a smooth operator (yes you are Sally) and could make long underwear and hair that hasn’t been washed in a week, look sexy.
Don’t misunderstand me. I am fabulous in my own right. But I don’t think I was meant to be a philanthropist, a politician, a counselor, a nun, a nurse or doctor, a saint, a business owner, a girlfriend, an actress…well, truth be told…I’m still kind of holding out for that one but my therapist says its just because I want to be “known” or something.
Perhaps my lack of definition has defined me: I am just…ME. Urinals or not.
Clause: That was a very cheesy ending to this blog post, but I’m too lazy to wrap it up, so I guess that I am not a writer either. That’s okay. Maybe I’m like Jesus who says, “I AM.”
