Well people, it ain’t pretty. But the work force no longer wants me. I am 54 years old, and no one believes I can do much of anything anymore, except maybe call bingo. If I am lucky enough to get an interview, the snotty pup behind the desk accidentally calls me Mamaw as we say goodbye.
During an interview yesterday, I met a potential boss who still had pimples on his chin. “How can you find time to write articles?” He asked. “Don’t you need to work on your will and funeral planning?”
“Don’t you need to shave off that pretend mustache since you’re not yet man enough to grow facial hair?” I snapped. Just for good measure, I spit on my finger and used it to tame his cowlick.
“Tell me about your hobbies,” he said loudly, enunciating each word. “For example, do you enjoy knitting?”
I shook my head and bit my tongue off instead of telling the little dear what he could do with the knitting needles. Then I reminded him that I was only wrinkled, not hearing impaired.
“So tell me, Nana ... I mean Ms. Coner, why should we hire a dinosaur?” He asked.
“I won’t be late for work,” I said. “I won’t party every night of the week.”
“You probably go to bed after the “Golden Girls” reruns,” he laughed.
“No,” I shook my head. “Actually, I’m a night owl, a regular vampire. But I would respect my job.”
“Hmm,” The young, slick-haired supervisor was quiet for a moment, returning a text. “That’s interesting.”
(I left out the part that I have menopause-induced insomnia and will likely show up for work before the sun officially begins the day. If I happen to be hot flashing that day, I will be meaner than a rabid dog. And my young co-workers might end up over my knee for the spankings I am sure they all deserve.)
“I have great work ethic,” I said. “I can run circles around whippersnappers.”
“Is that so?” He smiled.
“I also won’t text during meetings,” I said. “I respect my employer.”
(I left out the fact that I have arthritis in my neck, and too much texting makes me need a neck brace the next day.)
“I will wear my britches on my hips instead of my knees,” I said. “You will never hear me call a client, ‘dude.’ And customers will never listen to any of that who’s-your-baby-daddy rap stuff while they are on hold.”
Even though I worked so hard to win over that barely-through-puberty, shiny-faced boss, I am still jobless.
It’s probably a good thing. I wanted to ground the rude little tad pole from his phone.
He couldn’t leave it alone and focus only on me during the interview.
No worries just yet. I have a new job-hunting strategy. On my resume I present myself as a 32-year-old male. This approach has my phone ringing off the hook.
You don’t get to your 50s without developing some wise and rather scandalous ways, you know.
Coner, a longtime humor columnist and former Southsider, resides in southwest Florida. To learn more about her books and blog, visit www.sherriconer.com.