The art of dating when you are in your 40’s is a perilous, soul destroying mission. I blame my misfortune with men on the 'fairy tale factor'... That never ending belief that love conquers all and that one day a prince will come. Reality isn't even close to the fairy tale. Especially when the prince doesn’t just come with baggage – he comes with a bitter, money grubbing ex-wife clinging to his back like a hump.
Apparently, “give them a cup of tea and see how they feel” is never the answer. Nor is “panic loudly and call someone more qualified.”
By the end of this, I’ll be ready for any emergency. Provided it happens in multiple-choice format.
I opened Facebook this morning and was immediately told to rise, grind and chase my dreams.
It was 7.14am.
I hadn’t even found my glasses; and although I have great vision... I can't read anything on my iPhone without them!
Apparently, while I was lying in bed wondering whether I could be bothered getting up, thousands of highly motivated people had already meditated, exercised, written in their gratitude journals, drunk three litres of water and built a small business from their kitchen table.
Good for them.
I made coffee.
Then another post appeared: “You have the same number of hours in the day as Beyoncé.”
No, I bloody don’t.
Beyoncé has assistants, chefs, drivers, stylists and people whose entire job is probably to locate her missing phone. I have a cat sitting on something I need and a robot vacuum that regularly sends me distress messages about water or being clogged!
We need rules. Nobody should be allowed to post anything about “winning the morning” until the rest of us have had caffeine and confirmed that our knees still work. Personally, I don't think they should ever be allowed... They should all be rounded up and shot... (extreme I know)
And anyone using the phrase “Your only limit is you” should be required to spend one afternoon dealing with Centrelink, an insurance company and a self-serve checkout.
Sometimes your limit isn’t you.
Sometimes your limit is being placed on hold for 173 minutes while a recorded voice tells you that your call is important.
Now that’s inspirational.
I have decided I am no longer using a self-serve checkout unless the supermarket puts me on the payroll.
I arrive as a customer, but within seconds I’ve been promoted to cashier, bagging assistant, security officer and unpaid investigator of unexpected items in the bagging area.
There is no unexpected item. It’s a bloody avocado.
Then the machine freezes and flashes a light above my head, alerting the entire supermarket that I may be attempting to steal 37 cents worth of coriander. A teenager eventually wanders over, scans a magic card and releases me back into society.
Meanwhile, an employee watches twelve screens showing close-ups of everyone’s hands. Apparently, Woolworths now has better surveillance than the Pentagon, yet it still can’t tell the difference between a bread roll and organised crime.
And after I’ve scanned everything, found the barcode on the roast chicken, entered my own fruit, supplied my own bags and paid an amount roughly equal to a small mortgage repayment, the machine has the audacity to ask:
“Would you like a receipt?”
Yes. I’d also like a payslip, annual leave and recognition for prior learning.
If supermarkets want us to work there, fine. But I expect penalty rates on Sundays, ten percent off my groceries and a little name badge.
Carol — Employee of the Month. Or maybe the damned year!
