I admit that this job on the second shift, even for an introvert like me, is a little isolating. I essentially have no co-workers after 6:00, and after 8:00 there is very rarely anybody at all on this floor. The job is very simple. Of course, the company expects it to be done well: when there are interviews to be conducted it's important to listen well, go back and cover as much ground as needed to get correct information yet not make the applicant feel hounded or on the spot. People, of course, are endlessly interesting. Somebody asked me how I could sit here and ask the same questions over and over again, to which I replied, "The answers are never the same." I think it's a good job for me to have right now, as I square my shoulders to face the stress of our financial problems, the sale of the house, and what is sure to be an income tax nightmare surrounding The Hub's business.

I've also, just very quickly opened the lid on that boiling pot of emmotion in the back burner of my mind. It's a stew called, "Issues surrounding the loss of my business". However, I think I'm going to let that cook a little more - it looked unpleasant and smelled pretty bitter when I popped the lid off for a second.....

Yikes. Better get back to health and welfare of the parakeets.

'Course, the trouble with stews like that is, if you leave them on the back burner too long they often boil over, stuff seeps into other areas of your mental / emmotional kitchen ruining other dishes.

But, about the job. Take now for instance. It's dead quiet. I can hear the hum of the office machinery and the florescent lights above me. I can hear a low rumble of wheels of the cart from the cleaning people on the other side of the office. The guy finally turned the vacuum cleaner off. The noise of that thing just about makes me want to jump out of my skin. There's a particularly sharp quality to the whine it makes.

When they leave, they turn off most of the lights, except for the bank of lights in the section where I sit. Friday nights the call que is very low. There are few calls scheduled, and almost no one is ever home. Who wants to start their weekend having a frank conversation about their health and who they're gonna leave their money to when they die? So, for half of my "day" on Friday nights I sit alone in a little pool of light in a darkened office, checking and rechecking my phone to make sure it's on and working at little clerical tasks. The boss has told me she doesn't mind me using the internet. She's happy with my productivity, she knows I'm dependable and don't tie up the phone line with personal calls. "As long as the work gets done and gets done right, I'm happy" she said. She'll go far as a manager, I believe. Almost everybody rises to meet her good opinion of them. It's like a managment secret, that very few people can figure out. Funny, huh?

The trouble is, after awhile, I begin to think. Thinking is dangerous for me. It almost never leads to anything good. So, I try to keep it all speculative, entertaining myself with metaphysical problems like the logistics surrounding reincarnation or peace plans for the Middle East, while counting out address labels. I'll check the internet for a map or some other nugget of information, and read a little of the news. On the way home I'll get a full report from the BBC world news to which I love to listen, and, if I get on the road early enough I'll catch "Analysis" which usually has to do with global finance, health, or politics. On Fridays though, I don't tune in early, because it's about religion. For some reason, a thorough analysis of how people of the same faith traditions can't agree on anything, let alone get along with people of other faith traditions, depresses me terribly.

Of course, if you've ever tried to listen to the radio on Friday nights you know that everything else on there is terribly depressing. Saccherine love songs compete with music-too-hostile-too-handle-when-the-sun-is-out. One station features artists which may be up and coming, but, most likely aren't - and there's a reason for that. Another features a completely serious sex therapist and two men who who may have been kicked out of a fraternity for lack of sophistication taking calls from people about the problems of their intimate lives. These tend to mostly be young women who, I guess, are so used to their sexuality being a commodity they don't even care what the frat wanna be's think of it all, and are a way lot on the desperate side. The few times that I have listened to this for more than five seconds I've been mostly astonished that there are girls out there with self esteem even lower than mine is or ever was. It's sort of a new high in lows.

So I put in one of my cd's, which, while not exactly optomistic are at least clever. " You maybe got lucky, for a few good years/ there's no way back to there from here/ he's a one way rider or that shriek express/ and his new best friend's at the trottle more or less" members of Steely Dan inform "darlin'" on "Jack of Speed". You see, if I'm not careful, this is one of the things I'll start to think about. I wonder why so many of my favorite songs are about drug addiction - me, whose never done anything harder than a margarita.

And that will lead me to think about other aspects of my life such as what the hell am doing? What was I thinking of moving in to my parents house? How am I ever going to discuss with my husband all the things I need to discuss with my husband? How come every time I make a plan it gets run over by something more important, more urgent, and, usually, having nothing to do with me in the first place? What's wrong with the voice mail, what's wrong with the computer, where are the vacuum cleaner bags and, since I am, after all, a college graudate, why can't I figure it out? Is it that I'm losing my mind or did I just fool other people in to thinking I had one to begin with?

I think that most people talk to other people about things like this. Evidently, I am talking to you now about things like this. And it's a good thing too. Because I'm starting to feel so isolated that I may start banging my head on the wall in the woman's room just to start a conversation.

Women who have children talk about feeling this way, and they attribute it to having children. But I don't think that's it. I think it's a kind of side effect of disconnected suburban living or something - in my case, compounded by my natural reserve. Not that I don't go out of my way to be friendly to people. I smile and chat with everyone all the time. I banter with B. who sits behind me, I tell my road warrior stories and tales of the tweeters to anyone with even a passing interest. But I had two very telling encounters here at the office. One was in the gym. There's a lady here who is very very extroverted. The gym crowd is not unfriendly, but everyone is there, after all to work out. People of the opposite sex don't want to seem to be watching each other - I've become highly familiar with the tops of my tennis shoes because of this. Anyway, this lady came in and asked how much longer I thought I'd be on the treadmill so she could plan for when to use it. I smiled and gave her an estimate of time, which turned out to be less time than I did use it.

When I saw her in the ladies room she asked if I'd jumped off early to accomodate her, and said she hadn't meant for me to do that. No, I said, I just hadn't realized the time when she asked me. It was no problem.

"You sure? 'Cause, you know, I don't want to offend you."
"Of course I'm not offended. Did I, um, I mean, did I look pissed off or something?"
"No. No you one of those women that NEVER looks pissed off, so nobody can tell - I mean, unless they ask you. You like, what'd they call those unsafe girls at school?"
"A WASP" somebody completely unrelated to the conversation (and whom I'd never even seen before) put in from the sink.
You could have knocked me over with a stick. I don't know why. I've been though this, or some variation of it, every place I've ever worked. A WASP. A Goody-Two-Shoes. A Brainiac. Whatever it is, wherever I am, I'm somehow seen as outside it and above it all. Over time, by dint of my persistent friendliness, whatever bizarre first impression I manage to make on people fades until I over hear someone saying to a newcommer " she's not-like-that, she's a very nice person once you get to know her."

There's nothing to get to know. What.You.See.Is.What.You.Get.

"WASP like 'White Anglo-Saxon Protestant'?" I asked, just to make sure.

"Mmmm-hmm. You know, like a Yankee. Somebody said you from Massachusetts?"

I force myself to laugh. That's harder than it looks. Inside I'm thinking Dear God, is heaven the only place I won't have to go through this shit? "Yeah, I lived up there for awhile, but I'm the furthest thing from a WASP!"

"Well. You know. I mean, I'm sorry. Nobody like to be judged. You just hard to read is all I mean" she says this with a sincere friendliness. I don't doubt her.

"Hmm. I've heard that before. Hey, you better jump on that treadmill before somebody beats you to it" I smile. The lady at the sink gives me a sort of relieved smile too. I go into a stall, sit on the toilet and resist the urge to tear my hair out. Besides, it's still falling out on it's own from the thyroid thing.

Almost the next day, L who is our support person, was standing there talking to me about something, and I told her that I liked her hair style. The office extrovert walked by and said that it looked like someone, a character from a film or t.v. "That was played by Queen Latifah" L said, for my benefit. Then she said, "You know who Queen Latifah is?"

"L. I just live in the country. I don't live in a closet!" I smiled, "I know who Queen Latifah is" L. laughed and went back to her seat. That made me wonder. Are there white women my age who DON'T know who Queen Latifah is? There probably are! In fact, I'm sure there are. I'm sure there are women who never listen to any radio they don't usually listen to, never turn the dial to see what else is on, only watch certain shows, only read certain news. I'm sure there are as many white women who have never heard a rap song all the way through as there are women of color who've never heard a country song all the way through. I'm sure there are many people who don't know what they might like, what they might learn because they've already decided who they are, and where they're going and what their life is going to be life.

But I have no idea who I am. And my whole life is just one long series of wierd events day after day.

Maybe I am something different. Something awkward, unreadable, and unfit for general conversation. Maybe I really AM Some Winged Creature, brightly colored and sharp eyed, perched somewhere out of reach.

Well. Screw it. I've got enough problems in my own head without trying to fit into a catagory in somebody else's head. If you don't happen to like me, pass me by.

"
I am not my hair
I am not this skin
I am not your expectations (no)
I am not my hair
I am not this skin
I am the soul that lives within" - India Arie, Unknown, 2006