A few weeks ago I stood waiting on my coffee at the counter of my neighborhood Starbucks. Making small talk, the young male barista smiled and asked, “You headed to work?”
My mind went into overdrive.
My first thought was, “Well no. I may be wearing a sundress, but clearly I am not dressed for ‘work.’ Or, wouldn’t have been dressed for work back when I did ‘work’ because a working uniform for women in the ‘80’s and ‘90’s was a suit, preferably not a pants suit; or perhaps a blouse and skirt or dignified dress. At the very least not a sundress.”
But then I thought, ‘Well times have changed. ‘Work’ is way more casual. If – and that is a big ‘if’ – I find the time to pick up a women’s magazine and peruse the latest fashion I might indeed find a sundress among the suggested attire for ‘work.” Heck I wear it to ‘work’ every chance I get.’
But then, I, true to form – went to analyzing what he really was asking. Or at least what my brain – in its current mindset – was thinking he was asking, “Um, do you work or are you a lady who lunches?” “Do you bring home a fair share of the bacon, or all of it, and fry it up in the pan?” “Do you have legitimacy to your existence or do you lounge around all day eating bon bons and reading women’s magazines?” Perhaps his male gender didn’t help.
I felt the years of experience vying for a say in this debate in my head.
The years when most women – especially mothers – didn’t work outside the home, except as nurses or teachers or secretaries or school nurses.
The years when my father encouraged my sister and me as we became professionals, climbed the corporate ladders, broke some ceilings. And then the year later when I went part-time in my law practice and my own mother argued against it, feeling I was throwing all my hard work out the window.
The years when I worked full-time in said ‘part-time’ status just so I could still have legitimacy among my peers. And the year I learned to let that desire for legitimacy go, in favor of being a full-time WAHM – work at home mom – for my newly adopted daughter.
The years I was so busy traipsing to therapy appointments and getting an arm-chair PhD in the neuroscience of trauma in order to help my daughter that I didn’t have to time to go to Starbucks, let alone think about the meaning of such a question.
The more recent years, when I became a member of the Sandwich Generation, caring for my father and my children. ‘Work’ that has me studying up on geriatric care and ripping my hair out at dealing with a father who is sliding into dementia. ‘Work’ that has me thrilled at times with the progress I see in our youngest and weeping over dashed expectations. ‘Work’ that has me nagging my middle one day in and day out to do her school work, but snuggling up late at night to kiss her and tell her what a great kid she is.
And, finally, these past two years, serving as a board member for a national non-profit. ‘Work’ that keeps me up some nights on the computer until 1:00 am putting the finishing touches on a trade journal. ‘Work’ that has me logging into GoToMeeting while on vacation. ‘Work’ that even takes me away from home, speaking at conferences. ‘Work’ that has me as close to the outside world’s definition of ‘work’ but not collecting a dime because while the work is too important not to do, the dime isn’t there to collect.
My life’ ‘work’ flashed before my eyes as the micro-seconds ticked by and I formulated my response into one simple word.
“Yes.”
Which lead to his next innocent question, “Where do you work?”
And I thought, “Really? Do you, my young friend, really want to go there? Because this crazy WAHM/board member/Journal Editor/writer/eldercare working woman can take you. And then some.”