Dear Jews in My Hometown,
I know you mean well, but please refrain from asking me these five small, yet horrible words: “So, what do you do?” When you ask me that, it sends shock waves to my self-esteem’s last remaining shreds of dignity. If I tell you what I do for a living, you will judge me and think, “There must be something seriously wrong with her.”
I really don’t want to tell you that I moved back to my home town a year ago or why. And I definitely don’t want to tell you what I do for a living either. I can assure you that what I’m doing is the best that I can. I’m sorry if I’m not what you consider to be a success.
I work in a restaurant. I sling drinks, wine, and food. And I am damn good at it too! But I know it’s not impressive enough for you. Yes, I’m single and childless and 35 years old. No, I don’t own any property. I know your children are successful, breeding, contributing members of society and you think I’m scum. It’s palpable.
What you don’t know is when you ask me those five words, I sure as fuck don’t want to talk about it. Do I really need to tell you? I don’t ask you what you do for a living or if you’re currently fucking someone. It’s none of my business and I keep it that way.
If you really need to know, I wait tables to pay for the roof over my head, my car payments, and student loans. No one else is going to support me. I’m doing the best that I can.
Wonder why I work such a low-class job? It’s because no one will hire my art historian ass! Sure, every museum and gallery wants me to work– for free! Well, free doesn’t pay for shit.
I’m not married because frankly, I don’t intend to make vows to some fuckhead douchebag so I can give birth to the next generation of shithead kids, whose parents’ marriage will ultimately end in divorce.
Please accept my apologies if I came across as rude. I was trying to avoid you. Even though you said I was pretty, it doesn’t make up for your judging eyes. I thought God was the only one doing that on the High Holy Days.
Shana tova, fuckers.