“You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack, You may find yourself in another part of the world, You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile, You may find yourself in a beautiful house with a beautiful wife, You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?”
How did I work myself into a job where I’m wearing a tracksuit and being told the appropriate way to answer the phone by someone who was born in the late 1980s? Well, knowing their exact age is easy, actually. I saw an upside down employee file on a table and scanned it for the relevant info. Fifteen years of proof reading magazines for a living has got to be useful for something. I rarely miss something on a page… And being told how to use the phone well, maybe I look a bit blonde today. What with the hairband, and all. Hairbands – the bigger the better – are a major factor in my life right now. When you work in a pre-school and spend a good bit of the day crawling along the floor prentending you’re a frog, wearing a tracksuit to work is a given. Bling will always creep out though, even if it’s just in a sparkly hairband.
So anyhow, pretending you’re a frog for a living is a slightly different world to anywhere I’ve been before. The hours are long, the pay is shocking and there are no men in the building. Three, four and five year olds all tend to speak at once – in really loud voices – and the hormones in the staff room can be slightly shocking. But it’s fun, and when the kid with Downs Syndrome in my class pressed his tiny red-painted hand to my much larger, red-painted hand so we could add our ‘signatures’ to our family and friends tree, well, that was fairly brilliant.
Apparently, you can have a great home, a great career or a great relationship, but not all three together. The new yellow post-it on my fridge is undeterred however. It’s screaming ‘find a man!’ at me and if I’ve written something down, I have to do it. But where to start? Dublin awaits…
So life: same as it ever was.