The best thing about working was the honesty of it. I could finally, proudly, reel off a title, a venue and my duties to people who asked what I did, without crossing my fingers behind my back. I had always had an answer for this question, every smart girl does. Mine usually involved some job that was very rare or obscure, like consulting or language translating. Some career that no one would ever call you on. People can be very nosey, almost to the point of being rude, but ‘Mind your own fucking business’ was my standard response to those weighted, probing questions.
One of my former coworkers claimed to be a personal trainer, so she was forever inundated with friends wanting to book her services. This particular girl wouldn’t know a femur from a lemur, so she would come to work exhausted from taking a friend for an hour-long workout in the park. She quickly learnt to tell all future inquirers that she was booked out months in advance. The best answer was always that you worked as temp staff. That way you could always tell friends and family that you had to go to work, but never where. Oh what a tangled web we weave.
But no longer, I could be honest and proud about my job. Until someone asked me what I’d done before. I had prepared an answer for that: ‘I can’t remember, I’ve blocked it out!’ This always conjured a giggle, and called an end to further probing. Many people can relate to trying to forget their pasts, but for me, I could not recall the fabrications on my resume.
Working straight was wonderful, but juggling life was hard. My previous life had been heavenly in comparison. I had a receptionist come in everyday promptly at eight thirty; she tidied the house, cleaned the dishes, cleaned the clothes, made the bed, ran all my errands throughout the day. She even bought groceries when needed. All I had to do was prepare the evening meals, study and do my essays, and fuck ten or twelve clients. In the evenings I could simply eat, help Poppy with her homework then relax. Now I had to work a nine-hour day plus travel for an hour, come home and do all that shit myself—without the fucking. I was knackered. This Debby Doorknob lifestyle sucked.
I realised that I had never really cleaned and I had no idea how to do it. I quickly learnt though. Another lesson that was forced upon me was budgeting. I had been used to being paid daily, and always having $300 to $400 walk-around emergency money in my purse. I was used to buying fresh food every day. I was used to balancing my life with work and play quite nicely. Once a fortnight I would treat myself to an evening out with a friend to a nice meal or a concert. But now even those small luxuries fell way outside the confines of my budget. Planning and budgeting were killing me, but like most things, they took practice and self-discipline to master.
53
Outside Appearances
The irony of my life was that I had become so good at masking my history that I came across like some sort of superwoman. People wondered at my amazing abilities: obtaining a post-graduate qualification while working full time and being a fully engaged single mother who coached the school netball team. And still managed an overseas holiday each year. You can’t very well tell people the truth, but the fabrication is so implausible. For example; somehow I was able to afford my lifestyle in a five star suburb, with Poppy attending the most expensive school in the state, all while only working a thirty-hour week. All of this is possible without the assistance of any well-to-do baby daddy chipping in. Most people on two incomes couldn’t manage that.
So people often made the false assumption that I must have come from a wealthy family who fully supported me, my daughter and my excessive lifestyle. I was frequently told, ‘What would you know about the real world or struggling, you live in your ivory tower, where everything has been handed to you.’ This sentiment made the hairs on my neck stand on end and prickle with fire and animosity.
In my younger years I indeed struggled to provide a roof over my head and to be safe from harm. I had truly struggled to provide Poppy with what I felt she deserved and needed to have a good childhood. Emotionally I had struggled, but once I had established my financial worth had I really struggled? Probably not. I will say that I consistently chose not to simply survive but to thrive at the expense of societal norms. My career had rarely forced me to shed one bead of sweat. It was often an effortless task physically but that does not mean that it was easy. Even with my learnt ability to detach emotionally, some clients were painful and taxed my soul.
I recall that a lot of the clients who couldn’t last past the head job would often feel ripped off and comment that I’d made easy money. Sometimes I let that statement wash over me but other times I would ask what they would charge to do what I’d just done. And of course they would generally quote a lot more than I had taken from them fifteen minutes earlier. I always believed that no matter what your occupation, there were always great aspects to make the cringe-worthy tasks bearable. Mine was no different.
54
Pro Mode