I’ll Have the Meatloaf, and Don’t Bother to “Card” Me
by Karen Williams - Oviedo Voice - July 1, 2004
With joy, I anticipate turning 55 this year. At long last, I’ll be legal: I can order from the “senior menu” at Perkins or IHOP without having to fudge about my age. I suppose there will also be discounts available to me now at Laxative World, Trusses R Us, and Denture Depot. Hey, I’ll take what I can get.
But most important, I’ll take early retirement.
“What are you going to retire FROM, Mom?” my son, Joel, currently in law school, asked recently. (I wish he’d save his questions for the accused.) “You haven’t ever worked!” he declared.
Those were fightin’ words. I admit I haven’t made it a habit to go out to a 9-5 job. I’ve had no thirst for sitting in traffic jams or for juicy gossip at the water cooler. (Well, at least the traffic jam part.) But I’ve worked, nonetheless.
I’ve sold Amway products like all red-blooded Americans, and I’ve had flirtations with the multi-level marketing of herbs, vitamins, and cookware. (Anybody need a good set of saucepans?)
I’ve been a home-based freelance writer and editor for many years as well as a part-time proofer for Blackstone Audiobooks (wonderful job!), a Gallup pollster, and even a paperboy.
The paperboy position was not, of course, the stuff from which power résumés are made. I took the job so that sons Aaron, then 11, and Joel, 7, could learn responsibility, but I was due to learn that kids don’t WANT to learn responsibility. (So I guess it WAS a learning experience, even at that.)
Each afternoon, a burly woman would hurl a bundle of newspapers from her car, and the boys and I (or more likely, just I) would drag the papers into our apartment, where we’d roll each one up, rubber band them, then place them in a cloth newspaper bag on Aaron’s Huffy bicycle. The bike, known as the “Huffinator,” was small, and the newspaper bag bulged badly; thus trying to ride the bike was out of the question unless one wanted to visit an orthopedic surgeon. So we--or more likely, just I, (chewing the obligatory wad of Bazooka bubble gum)--walked over hill and dale, pushing the cumbersome bike and delivering newspapers throughout several neighborhoods.
It would be inaccurate to say that Aaron and Joel never helped with this project. If there were a (God forbid) power outage so that they couldn’t watch TV or play Nintendo, they would pass the papers while I walked with them. And they were always eager to participate once a month when we collected money from our customers, whose names they never bothered to learn but referred to as “Rich Lady,” “Mean Man,” or “Elvis.” They were especially eager to help collect in December and smiled brightly when we went up to each door, hoping for a Christmas tip but sometimes getting nothing more than a chunk of fruitcake. And maybe nothing but a scowl from “Mean Man.”
I’ve always been one to make the best of things. When I’d tromp the route alone, I’d use the time to think positive thoughts—what nice petunias, what a lovely sky, what a nice (sigh) Olympic-size swimming pool at “Rich Lady’s” house. I would also do silent affirmations--statements, as if factual, of things I wanted to happen. I’d use the alphabet as a memory device. For “A,” I would think: I have abundance (as much money as “Rich Lady,” maybe). For “Z,” I would think: I sleep (z-z-z) well at night (an inevitability after all that exercise). For “B,” I started affirming: I have a baby. It somehow didn’t occur to me that money and a good night’s sleep were polar opposites of “baby.”
My husband must have been affirming, too, for in due time I became the world’s first paperboy with morning sickness. I quit my newspaper career before daughter, Emily, was born and after several “Carrier of the Month” awards that I not so cheerfully shared with Aaron and Joel.
I learned much from that newspaper route: (1) A small job done well has its rewards; (2) Any work that involves being out in nature is well-paid indeed; (3) I desperately needed to take a class in child discipline; (4) Affirmations can change your life big time.
Anyhow, memories of the workaday world fast fade into oblivion as I prepare for early retirement.
Joel, I’ll see you at court—the shuffleboard court, in my case.
Copyright 2004, Karen Williams
