Let’s Work! (Part 4)
by Mary Wakefield Buxton
Urbanna, Va.— Deciding to return to work was one thing but actually appearing in a law office on the first day of work was another. It was a terrible shock to my 70-year-old system.
What? What? The alarm clock rang so early! I stared at it with one eye. Was I actually supposed to jump out of bed now and go to work? How could this horrible event have happened to me? Hadn’t I retired 20 years ago? When you retired, weren’t you supposed to stay retired?
Oh, I suddenly remembered my new campaign for seniors to start businesses, return to work, hire others, continue paying taxes, Social Security and Medicare, and save the country. I had to set an example. One simply could not launch a campaign from one’s bed. Up, lady! Let’s work!
Grumbling, I stepped over “Lord” and “Lady” on my blind stumble to the closet. They did not stir. “Don’t let me disturb your beauty sleep!” I said through gritted teeth.
“Keep it down,” Lady answered with a soulful yawn. “I don’t rise for another hour,” she thought to add to the hired help.
“What are you doing up at such an ungodly hour, Mom?” asked Lord, one eye looking me over as if I were a pesky gnat that had just landed on his nose while the other eye went on sleeping.
“I have to go to work,” I snapped. “To keep a roof over your heads, to keep you well fed and cared for in the style you are used to.”
“Work? But why?” Both dogs popped up their lovely heads in horror, as if someone had mentioned a word so vile as “snake” or “spider.”
“Yes, work,” I answered tartly, I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you that some people work day in and day out so they can hire others and pay their taxes and keep this nation afloat all the while the government spends our hard-earned tax money as if it were nothing but popcorn.” I might have gone on with my soliloquy because I suddenly felt so inspired, but to no use. The dogs, assured no snakes or spiders were in the room, had settled back into sleep.
Whatever would I wear? I supposed I had to find something conservative and businesslike to wear to a dreary law office. I flung open my closet doors to find an array of Floridian colors as bright as a circus. Fuchsias, scarlets and oranges tossed up with lime green, yellow and bright blues all tooting their horns in one grand cacophony. I sighed. Not one outfit was suitable to a law office.
Finally, a drab dress at least 20 years old scowled at me from the back of my closet. I squeezed into it. Gracious, the dress had shrunk with age! But what about my hair? Wild curls danced on my head with such passion I could barely convince a comb to journey forth. Then, what about my wee propensity for laughter? Law offices are serious places where people are making dire plans to allay troubles that lie ahead. I mustn’t laugh the entire day long! Could I survive?
I made my way to the kitchen only to bump into the boss who was already seated at the table awaiting his breakfast. Dear God! To have to cook breakfast for your boss! What other hideous suffering must be endured on my first day of work?
He looked me over as if sizing up his personnel decision to put me on the payroll. I wondered how efficient I looked as I frumped along with frying pan and teapot.
“You will be training at the front desk today with Maryellen,” he said. Maryellen was moving to New Jersey, the lucky duck, I thought. I suddenly became aware of severe pain in my right hand and realized my carpel tunnel syndrome was acting up again. Could one call in sick on the first day of work?
“I’m glad you‘re returning to work, my dear,” he continued. “It’s time you learned how the other half lives.”
“Hah!” I sniffed. “That is precisely my point in my new ‘Let’s Work!’ campaign! Not enough people are working, paying taxes, and contributing to Social Security and Medicare! The nation needs more workers to fund all the government programs!”
“Well dear, you are setting a fine example for a woman of your advanced age,” he replied.
“Really! Seventy isn’t that old! I still feel like a young girl!”
“We’ll see how young you feel after a long day at the office,” he said as he left.
Kissing the dogs goodbye, I was soon positioned at the front desk answering phones. “What fun!” I thought, as I transferred calls to various extensions. Easy as pie!
A buzzer sounded. A dreadfully grating noise, as if a buzz saw had been unleashed in my eardrum. What in the world was that? I stared at the phone. “Mary, get me Mr. so-and-so on the line and on the double!” barked the boss from the office intercom.
What? What? I stared dumbly at the instrument. Was that my husband of 48 years ordering me to look up some telephone number for him and then, on top of that, dial it for him? How dare he speak to me in such a fashion! Didn’t he have a pair of hands and eyes and couldn’t he dial his own telephone?
My brain connected to some dark and terrible chapter in American history. I saw Susan B. Anthony on the courthouse steps trying to cast her vote in New York state! I saw a policeman shackling her hands in cuffs and leading her to jail!
There was no doubt in my mind if I were going to return to work, pay higher taxes, continue contributing to Social Security and Medicare, and save the nation, there would first have to be some changes made around here.
(Will feminism ruin Mary’s 48-year marriage and put an end to her “Let’s Work!“ campaign to save America? Life is short. Let’s have fun!)
