Or: The Working Woman's Mild Lament
So I spent 2.5 days at work last week. Fortunately, the Pumpkin being in the capable hands of his father, I did not worry about him. (Unfortunately, there was a great screaminess surrounding feelings of I Hate Plastic WHERE'S MY BOOB. Yes, we tried a whole bunch of bottles/pacifiers/etc. starting at the midwife-recommended time. Yes, he hates all of them.)
My work (doing high-tech bicycle repair, you may remember) is quite interesting. I like my co-workers. I like my boss. I have a great deal of flexibility in when and how I get my work done. The money, of course, is nice.
All the same, I can't help feeling, at least a little, that it is completely unimportant. On the other hand, it is important. More bicycle-riders means less pollution, reduced medical costs because bicycle-riders are more healthy, etc. Better bicycles mean more riders.
I sometimes wonder why I bothered getting all that education, anyways. I long ago decided to leave research science, so I suppose I got that PhD, as has famously been said, because it was there. I don't really regret it; I merely find my life taking- because of my own choices, mind you- an entirely unexpected direction. It's a trifle disconcerting. I look in the mirror and I'm not sure I recognize the woman there. I'm happy with what I have. But I'm not used to it yet.
Maybe, someday soon, my self-image will catch up to my life.